One of the men leaned back and reached down a new unopened pack from a side table. The cards they had been playing with were red. These were blue and the revenue stamp was unbroken. But a new pack on a declaration that the game was going to end struck Ralston as curiously unnecessary. The air in the room was beginning to make his head swim, and a glance at his watch disclosed that it was half after five. It was time for him to get Steadman away, but how to do it?
"Hundred-dollar ante," said Farrer, shuffling the cards ostentatiously and dealing himself a jack. They each put in a blue. Steadman was helplessly fumbling his chips, counting and recounting them. Silence fell upon the table as Farrer tossed the cards accurately to each player.
As the last cards were being dealt Steadman's fifth card struck his glass, balanced, and fell slowly over. It was a deuce of hearts.
"I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Farrer apologetically.
"Hang you!" escaped from one of the others, and Ralston saw that the man's hands were trembling.
"I won't take that card," said Steadman, awaking suddenly as out of a trance. "It's no good. Gimme another!"
Farrer flushed.
"I'm sorry, you'll have to take it. It's on the deal, not the draw. The rule is as old as the game."
"I say I won't take it," snarled Steadman. "I haven't seen my hand. I won't take it. I'll stay out, but I won't pick up that card—it's no good." He gave a silly laugh.
One of the other men sprang to his feet.