The next afternoon he was back again, seeking amusement and profit. This time he followed up three of a kind to his doom. There was a better hand across the table, held by a pugnacious Irish youth, who was a political hanger-on of the Tammany district in which they were located. Hurstwood was surprised at the persistence of this individual, whose bets came with a _sang-froid_ which, if a bluff, was excellent art. Hurstwood began to doubt, but kept, or thought to keep, at least, the cool demeanour with which, in olden times, he deceived those psychic students of the gaming table, who seem to read thoughts and moods, rather than exterior evidences, however subtle. He could not down the cowardly thought that this man had something better and would stay to the end, drawing his last dollar into the pot, should he choose to go so far. Still, he hoped to win much—his hand was excellent. Why not raise it five more? “I raise you three,” said the youth. “Make it five,” said Hurstwood, pushing out his chips. “Come again,” said the youth, pushing out a small pile of reds. “Let me have some more chips,” said Hurstwood to the keeper in charge, taking out a bill. A cynical grin lit up the face of his youthful opponent. When the chips were laid out, Hurstwood met the raise. “Five again,” said the youth. Hurstwood’s brow was wet. He was deep in now—very deep for him. Sixty dollars of his good money was up. He was ordinarily no coward, but the thought of losing so much weakened him. Finally he gave way. He would not trust to this fine hand any longer. “I call,” he said. “A full house!” said the youth, spreading out his cards. Hurstwood’s hand dropped. “I thought I had you,” he said, weakly. The youth raked in his chips, and Hurstwood came away, not without first stopping to count his remaining cash on the stair. “Three hundred and forty dollars,” he said. With this loss and ordinary expenses, so much had already gone. Back in the flat, he decided he would play no more. Remembering Mrs. Vance’s promise to call, Carrie made one other mild protest. It was concerning Hurstwood’s appearance. This very day, coming home, he changed his clothes to the old togs he sat around in. “What makes you always put on those old clothes?” asked Carrie. “What’s the use wearing my good ones around here?” he asked. “Well, I should think you’d feel better.” Then she added: “Some one might call.” “Who?” he said. “Well, Mrs. Vance,” said Carrie. “She needn’t see me,” he answered, sullenly. This lack of pride and interest made Carrie almost hate him. “Oh,” she thought, “there he sits. ‘She needn’t see me.’ I should think he would be ashamed of himself.”