“No, thanks,” Locke said firmly, when Hagin pressed him. “I’ve had enough.”
“I reckon you have had enough,” put in Buck Fargo, in a tone which seemed so significant that the cub pitcher glanced swiftly at him. The big backstop was busy with his cards, and did not look up; but Lefty noticed that his face was oddly serious. He noticed also the half-emptied glass of seltzer standing beside Fargo’s scanty pile of chips, and a sudden qualm struck him.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have taken that beer, after all,” he said to himself. “I thought everybody was drinking something in that line.”
A quick survey of the table told him that everybody else was, and, somewhat reassured, he went on with the game. Perhaps the catcher was a little peevish because he was losing so heavily. Adversity at cards brings out the good and bad points of a man’s character better than almost anything else.
The game progressed. More drinks were brought, more cigars produced and lighted. No one got befuddled, for the Hornets were a hard-headed crowd, and each one knew his limit; but there was a general warming up throughout the room. Joshing and laughter sounded continuously. Now and then some one would burst into song, only to be sat upon instantly by three or four others. The tobacco smoke hung in a thick pall midway between ceiling and floor, stirred fitfully by soft breezes from the open windows.
For a time Lefty continued to win. Then gradually luck seemed to turn against him. He still held much the same run of cards, but several times he made bad errors in judgment. Presently he became conscious of an extraordinary sensation of lightness in his head, like nothing else he had ever experienced. It was not especially disagreeable. On the contrary, it seemed as if his senses had become suddenly more acute, as if he could play two small pairs so cleverly that he would bluff out stronger hands. Instead, he lost, and kept on losing.
It was most puzzling and annoying. He could not understand it. That first odd exhilaration passed in a little while, and was succeeded by a dull depression. His head began to ache. Was it the smoke? he wondered. Several times he caught one of the fellows eyeing him curiously, and it brought him up with a jerk, determined to stick it out and let no one know there was anything the matter with him.
How long it continued he never knew. For seeming hours he went on his raw nerve, playing the cards dealt to him instinctively, his whole being occupied in fighting off a clogging sensation which constantly threatened his brain like a smothering blanket.
It was Buck Fargo who made the first move to break up, and Lefty could have hugged him had he not been so taken up in keeping a grip upon his consciousness.
“Well, fellows, I’m going to hit the downy,” the big backstop announced, with a cavernous yawn. “Let’s settle up.”