“Right Bower, egad!” exclaimed the big man, who was evidently minus trumps.
The pasty-faced American played the Ace of Spades without saying a word.
“A blanky march!” cried the digger. “Look-a-here. How’s that for high?” and he placed on the table his three remaining cards—the King, Queen, and ten of trumps.
The other players showed their hands, which were full of red cards.
“Up, and one to spare,” exclaimed the digger, and took the pool.
About fifty pounds, divided into three unequal piles, lay on the table, and beside each player’s money stood a glass.
The florid man was shuffling the pack, and the other two were arranging their marking cards, when the door opened slowly, and the Father of Timber Town, followed by Cathro and Scarlett, entered the room.
“Well, well. Hard at it, eh, Garsett?” said the genial old gentleman, addressing himself to the Englishman. “Cut-throat euchre, by Jupiter! A ruinous game, Mr. Lichfield,”—to the man with the gold tooth—“but your opponent”—pointing with his stick to the digger—“seems to have all the luck. Look at his pile, Cathro. Your digger friend, eh, Scarlett? Look at his pile—the man’s winning.”
Scarlett nodded.
“He’s in luck again,” said Mr. Crewe; “in luck again, by all that’s mighty.”