Stephen’s face began to burn. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror that hung behind the bar. Somehow the dull-eyed, white face which looked back at him seemed to have no connection with the radiant creature that he felt himself to be. At this juncture Jackson made a suggestion. “What do you say to a little game, gents?” “By—all—means,” exclaimed Loring, emphasizing each word as if it were the last of the sentence. Hankins, stooping behind the bar, brought up a pack of cards. “Here’s an unopened deck,” he said. With queer little side look at his partner, he went on. “I’ll get even with you for our last game, Jackie.” Stephen, with footsteps that came down very hard, walked over to one of the tables. Then he stopped. “I—haven’t—got—much—money—here,” he said. He enunciated with the heavy, precise diction of a man who knows, but will not believe that he is drunk. “That’s all right,” said Jackson. “Your I. O. U. goes with us. We ain’t like a boardin’-house keeper I used to know in Los Angeles, who had a sign hung out over his place: ‘We only trust God.’” Stephen and Jackson sat down at the table, and the latter began to shuffle the cards vigorously. “Another whisky, please,” called Stephen to Hankins. He spoke as if a “whisky please” were a special sort of drink. “A beer for me too,” called Jackson. Hankins brought the drinks on a little tin tray. Before taking each glass from it, he mechanically clicked the bottom against the edge of the tray. Stephen fumbled in his pocket for change. “Don’t pay now,” drawled Jackson. “Drinks is on the game. Winner shells up for the pleasure he has had.” Hankins joined them at the table, remarking as he sat down: “What’s the chips wuth?” He nodded assent to Stephen’s rather indistinct answer. “Freeze-out? Play till some one goes broke? Let her drive, Jackie!” Jackson dealt with rapid precision, emphasizing each round by banging his own card down hard on the table. All looked at their hands, while the dealer drawled softly: “Kyards, gents? Kyards—three for you, Mr. Loring?” For three hours they played. Every little while Hankins rose, and brought more drinks. “On the game, gents, on the game!” he exclaimed each time. Sometimes one was ahead, sometimes another, but no one had any decided advantage. Stephen played mechanically. The voices of the other men seemed to him far away, and indistinct. Then the luck changed, and Loring began to win steadily. His success drew him on. He played recklessly, but by some sport of fate continued to win. He had a stiff smile upon his lips, and was evidently playing blindly. “Say, Hankie, I guess we are being bitten,” remarked Jackson dryly. “It sure looks that way. Mr. Loring here is a great player. We didn’t know what we were up against, did we?” In his maudlin condition these words delighted Stephen. With only a pair of threes in his hand he pulled in a stack of chips, on which the others had dropped out.