A quick survey of the table told him that everybody else was, and, somewhat reassured, he went on with the game. Perhaps the catcher was a little peevish because he was losing so heavily. Adversity at cards brings out the good and bad points of a man’s character better than almost anything else. The game progressed. More drinks were brought, more cigars produced and lighted. No one got befuddled, for the Hornets were a hard-headed crowd, and each one knew his limit; but there was a general warming up throughout the room. Joshing and laughter sounded continuously. Now and then some one would burst into song, only to be sat upon instantly by three or four others. The tobacco smoke hung in a thick pall midway between ceiling and floor, stirred fitfully by soft breezes from the open windows. For a time Lefty continued to win. Then gradually luck seemed to turn against him. He still held much the same run of cards, but several times he made bad errors in judgment. Presently he became conscious of an extraordinary sensation of lightness in his head, like nothing else he had ever experienced. It was not especially disagreeable. On the contrary, it seemed as if his senses had become suddenly more acute, as if he could play two small pairs so cleverly that he would bluff out stronger hands. Instead, he lost, and kept on losing. It was most puzzling and annoying. He could not understand it. That first odd exhilaration passed in a little while, and was succeeded by a dull depression. His head began to ache. Was it the smoke? he wondered. Several times he caught one of the fellows eyeing him curiously, and it brought him up with a jerk, determined to stick it out and let no one know there was anything the matter with him. How long it continued he never knew. For seeming hours he went on his raw nerve, playing the cards dealt to him instinctively, his whole being occupied in fighting off a clogging sensation which constantly threatened his brain like a smothering blanket. It was Buck Fargo who made the first move to break up, and Lefty could have hugged him had he not been so taken up in keeping a grip upon his consciousness. “Well, fellows, I’m going to hit the downy,” the big backstop announced, with a cavernous yawn. “Let’s settle up.” There were protests, of course; but Fargo was firm. Released from the tension of playing, Lefty sat stupidly staring at the three red chips in front of him. He was aroused by Russell’s voice: “Come across with seventeen bucks, Locke. You made a bad finish.” Without a word, the cub pitcher fumbled in his pocket and drew forth a roll of bills. The numbers in the corners were blurred and indistinct. He picked out several at random, tossed them on the table, gathered in the change Russell handed him, and arose slowly to his feet. For an instant he stood gripping the chairback. The room was going around; the floor tilted dangerously. “What’s the matter, kid?” came in Fargo’s voice. “You look sort of funny.”