The strain was telling even on Rankin, but he was never idle. Most of the men in Garwood’s rooms had visibly relaxed, and some one, feeling no doubt that they were about to settle down to one of those long deadlocks that last for weeks, had suggested a game of poker, and had asked Rankin to join in it.
“No,” he said, “I’ve got my work to do. I must see some fellers to-night. You boys play, though,” he added in his kindly way. “The judge here’ll play with you. You play, don’t you, Zeph?”
“Well,” the Singed Cat drawled, “I’m better’n a—green hand.”
And so they got out the chips. It all irritated Garwood beyond endurance. He slung on his coat savagely, and seized his hat. For them to sit calmly down to play cards while he was in that clutch of circumstance, was more than he could bear.
“I’m going out awhile,” he flung at them.
“That’s right, Jerry,” said Rankin, “that’s the thing for you to do. The exercise’ll do you good. I’m goin’ to see O’Malley after while—I’ll look after things. Stay long’s you want."
And Garwood left, swearing. Down the hallway he heard the click of the chips of other games; at Barrett’s room he had a glimpse of the old man sitting in all his dignity with some of the boys from Logan County leaning over him. Sprague’s door, too, was open; he caught the laughter within, and as he passed, he suddenly beheld O’Malley and Knowlton talking with Randolph. The scene was etched on his mind, the three men standing there in the bright light, the hats of O’Malley and Knowlton thrown back, Randolph bareheaded, his coat and waistcoat off, his long cravat unknotted, and dangling over his soiled bosom. As he passed he heard Knowlton say:
“All right then, Hal.”
Garwood hastened on. Hot as the little old hotel was, he broke into a cold sweat. The very thing he had feared was coming to pass! And they were so open about it, too!
His first thought was to turn back and rouse Rankin, but a strange childish fear of Randolph seized him, a morbid dread of being seen by any of his opponents just then, and he kept on.