"Well," said I, "what was wrong with that?"
"Wait. The hundred-dollar bet started Joe to thinking. He had been bumping into topping hands all the evening, and Davidson knew it.
"'If I were you,' says Davidson in a nice kind tone of voice, 'I wouldn't call that bet. Luck is against you to-night, and I'd advise you, as a friend, to lay that pat hand down and forget it.'
"Joe looked at him for a long time and then he looked at his cards; you see he'd been beaten so often that he'd lost his sense of values.
"'You think I hadn't better play these?' asks Joe.
"'I've given you a tip,' says Davidson. 'I hate to see a man go up against a sure thing.'
"'Well,' says Joe at last, 'I guess you've done me a favour. It wasn't much of a full anyway,' and he spread his hand on the table. Davidson didn't show his cards—he pitched 'em into the discard and raked in the pot—not more than fifteen dollars outside of his hundred."
"And what of that?" I asked.
"Oh, nothing," said Waddles; "nothing, only I was dealing the next hand, and I arranged to get a flash at the five cards that Davidson tried to bury in the middle of the deck."
"What did he have?"