“I turn it down,” said Mr. Sharper, adroitly whirling the face of the trump card downward. “Who will make it?”
“I won’t,” said the player on his left.
“I won’t,” said Mr. Greeney. “But—but—”
“Well, what is it?” said Mr. Sharper, in a tone barely tinged with impatience.
“Why,” rejoined Mr. Greeney, with a frankness that spoke better for his heart than his head, “I just wish it was poker!”
“Why?” asked Mr. Sharper.
“Because, I’d bet some—”
“Well,” suggested Mr. Sharper, with a careless yawn, “we might get up a little bet on our hands, anyhow, just to pass away the time. I’ve felt dull for the last half-hour, I’d risk something on my hand, if I were sure of losing. But I warn you, it is not a bad hand. Have you all any thing like poker hands? Come: a pair of deuces——”
“I haven’t,” said his left-hand man, interrupting him.
“Nor I,” said his left-hand-man’s partner, who sat on his right.