“You can sell that for five hundred—if you win it,” he said. “I’ll play it even against your ninety-eight bucks. Give me forty-nine to start with. If you win them give me forty-nine more, and the watch is yours. Right?” “Right,” said Reivers, keeping the watch and dividing his roll with Toppy. “Dollar jack-pots, table-stakes. Deal ’em up.” Toppy lost ten dollars on the first hand almost before he realised that the game had begun. He called Reivers’ bet and had three fours and nothing else in his hand. Reivers had two of the wild deuces and a king. Toppy shook his head, like a pugilist clearing his wits after a knockdown. Why had he called? He knew his three fours weren’t good. His card-sense had told him so. He had called against his judgment. Why? Suddenly, like something tangible pressing against his brain, he felt Reivers’ will thrusting itself against his. Then he knew. That was why he had called. Reivers had willed that he do so, and, catching him off his guard, had had his way. “Good work!” said Toppy, passing the cards. He was himself again; his wits had cleared. He allowed Reivers to take the next three pots in succession without a bet. Reivers looked at him puzzled. The fourth pot Toppy opened for five dollars and Reivers promptly raised him ten. After the draw Toppy bet a dollar, and Reivers again raised it to ten more. Toppy called. Reivers, caught bluffing without a single pair, stared as Toppy laid down his hand and revealed nothing but his original openers, a pair of aces. A frown passed over Reivers’ face. He peered sharply at Toppy from beneath his overhanging brows, but Toppy was raking in the pot as casually as if such play with a pair of aces was part of his system. “Good work!” said Reivers, and gathered the cards to him with a jerk. Half a dozen hands later, on Reivers’ deal, Toppy picked up his hand and saw four kings. “I’ll pass,” said he. “I open for five,” said Reivers. “Take the money,” laughed Toppy carelessly throwing his hand into the discard. For an instant Reivers’ eyes searched him with a look of surprise. The glance was sufficient to tell Toppy that what he had suspected was true. “So he’s dealing ’em as he wants ’em!” thought Toppy. “All right. He’s brought it on himself.” An hour later Reivers arose from the table with a smile. The money had changed hands. Toppy was snapping his watch back on its chain, and stuffing the bills into his pocket. “Your money now, Treplin,” laughed Reivers. “Until somebody takes it away from you.” But there was a new note in his laughter. He had been beaten, and his irritation showed in his laughter and in the manner in which, after he had taken another big drink of whiskey, he paused in the doorway as he made to leave. “Great luck, Treplin; great luck with cards you have!” he said laughingly. “Too bad your luck ends there, isn’t it? What’s that paraphrase of the old saw? ‘Lucky with cards, unlucky with women.’ Good night, Treplin.”