“Pass again,” said the American.
“Ditto,” said the Englishman.
“Then this time I make it ‘Spades,’” said the digger, bearded to the eyes; his tangled thatch of black hair hiding his forehead, and his clothes such as would have hardly tempted a rag-picker.
“You make it ‘next,’ eh?” It was the Englishman who spoke.
“We’ll put you through, siree,” said the American, who was a small man, without an atom of superfluous flesh on his bones. His hair stood upright on his head, his dough-coloured face wore a perpetual smile, and he was the happy possessor of a gold eye-tooth with which he constantly bit his moustache. The player who had come to aid him in plucking the pigeon was a big man with a florid complexion and heavy, sensuous features, which, however, wore a good-natured expression.
The game was cut-throat euchre; one pound points. So that each of the three players contributed five pounds to the pool, which lay, gold, silver and bank-notes, in a tempting pile in the middle of the table.
“Left Bower, gen’lemen,” said the digger, placing the Knave of Clubs on the table.
“The deuce!” exclaimed the florid man.
“Can’t help you, partner,” said the man with the gold tooth, playing a low card.
“One trick,” said the digger, and he put down the Knave of Spades. “There’s his mate.”