“I'll bank,” said Pedlow, taking a chair between Cooley and the Italian, “unless somebody wants to take it off my hands. Now, what are we playing?”
“Pokah,” responded Sneyd with mild sarcasm.
“Bravo!” cried Mellin. “That's my game. Ber-ravo!”
This was so far true: it was the only game upon which he had ever ventured money; he had played several times when the wagers were allowed to reach a limit of twenty-five cents.
“You know what I mean, I reckon,” said Pedlow. “I mean what we are playin' fer?”
“Twenty-five franc limit,” responded Cooley authoritatively. “Double for jacks. Play two hours and settle when we quit.”
Mellin leaned back in his chair. “You call that high?” he asked, with a sniff of contempt. “Why not double it?”
The fat man hammered the table with his fist delightedly. “'He's game,' she says. 'He's the gamest little Indian ever come down the big road!' she says. Was she right? What? Maybe she wasn't! We'll double it before very long, my boy; this'll do to start on. There.” He distributed some of the small towers of ivory counters and made a memorandum in a notebook. “There's four hundred apiece.”
“That all?” inquired Mellin, whereupon Mr. Pedlow uproariously repeated Madame de Vaurigard's alleged tribute.
As the game began, the intelligent-looking maid appeared from the dining-room, bearing bottles of whisky and soda, and these she deposited upon small tables at the convenience of the players, so that at the conclusion of the first encounter in the gentle tournament there was material for a toast to the gallant who had won it.