He bet a white chip and Bodney raised. The opener gave him what was termed the "back wash," re-raised. Then the beauty of the flush began to fade. Could it be that the fellow—the very same offensive fellow, who had beaten him before—could have filled his hand? Or, had he drawn to threes and "sized" Bodney for a revengeful "bluff?" "Well, I’ll have to call you," said Bodney. He put in his money and the offensive fellow showed him a ten full. "You always beat me." "I do whenever I can." "But you make it a point to beat me." "Make it a point to beat anybody." "Well, I don’t want any abuse and I won’t have it." "Play cards, boys," said the look-out. "What’s the matter with you, worms?" said the offensive fellow, looking at Bodney. "Play like brothers," spoke up the look-out. At a little after eleven o’clock Bodney came down as heavy as a drowned man. His heart was full of bitterness. He cursed the world and all that was in it. He called on God to strike him dead. Then he swore that there could be no God; there was nothing but evil and he was the embodiment of it. But if he had only ten dollars he could win out. He had won, and it was but reason to suppose that he could win again. Any old player, imbued with the superstitions of the game, would have told him that to go back was to lose. "I’ll go over and see that druggist again," he mused. "Strange that I have lived in this town all my life and don’t know where to get money after eleven o’clock at night. I ought to have set my stakes better than that. And now, what excuse can I give for coming back to borrow again so soon? Perhaps he isn’t there." Nor was he there. Bodney looked in with anxiety toward the show case behind which he expected to see his friend, and with contempt at the soda-water man. He thought of the envelope. He pictured himself standing there, smiling, a few hours before—and like an arrow came the recollection of the note directed to the preacher. He wheeled about, rushed across the street, jostling through the crowd which was still thick upon the sidewalk, raced around the corner, swam through another crowd, bounded across another street just in front of a cable train, and, breathless, panted up the stairway leading to the Wexton. Before touching the electric button he tore open the envelope, took out the money, destroyed the note; he touched the button and wondered if the black porter would ever come. Undoubtedly the game must have broken up. No, there was the black face, grim in the vitreous light. And there was a vacant seat, his old, lucky seat. "Bring me ten," he called, as he sat down. And addressing the look-out, he asked if Goyle had been there. He had played a few pots after dinner, but had quit early. "Did he win?" "I think he win a few dollars. Said he had an engagement on the West Side."