“We need another hand here,” he said, when they went over to him. “These gentlemen are worried because they might be taken into high society some day, and they would be placed in a very embarrassing position through their ignorance of bridge-whist. I have very magnanimously consented to teach them the rudiments.”
Bob Nevin looked up, and then lowered an eyelid cautiously. “He's a liar. He offered to learn us how to play it; we bet him the drinks he didn't savvy the game himself. Set down, Pink, and I'll have you for my pretty pardner.”
The Silent One shuffled the cards thoughtfully. “To make it seem like bona-fide bridge,” he began, “we should have everybody playing.”
“Aw, the common, ordinary brand is good enough,” protested Bob. “I ain't in on any trimmings.”
The Silent One smiled ever so slightly. “We should have prizes—or favors. Is there a store in town where one could buy something suitable?”
“They got codfish up here; I smelt it,” suggested Jim Ellis. Him the Silent One ignored.
“What do you say, boys, to a real, high society whist-party? I'll invite the crowd, and be the hostess. And I'll serve punch—”
“Come on, fellows, and have one with me,” called a strange voice near the door.
“Meeting's adjourned,” cried Jim Ellis, and got up to accept the invitation and range along the bar with the rest. He had not been particularly interested in bridge-whist anyway.
The others remained seated, and the bartender called across to know what they would have. Pink cut the cards very carefully, and did not look up. Rowdy thrust both hands in his pockets and turned his square shoulder to the bar. He did not need to look—he knew that voice, with its shoddy heartiness.