“Come, be alive,” said Owen, in whom the liquor had stimulated the passion for play.
“What's the thrump—is it a diamond? look over and tell us,” murmured the crowd nearest the entrance.
“'Tis a spade!—I lay fourpence 'tis a spade!”
“Why wouldn't it be?” said another; “it's the same spade will dig Lucas's grave this night!”
“Look! see!” whispered another, “Owen Connor's won the first thrick! Watch him now! Mind the way he lays the card down, with a stroke of his fist!”
“I wish he wouldn't be drinking so fast!” said another.
“Who won that? who took that thrick?” “Ould Heffernan, divil fear him! I never see him lose yet.”
“There's another; that's Owen's!” “No; by Jonas! 'tis Luke again has it.” “That's Sam M'Quire's! See how aizy he takes them up.”
“Now for it, boys! whisht! here's the last round!” and at this moment, a breathless silence prevailed among the crowd; for while such as were nearest were eagerly bent on observing the progress of the game, the more distant bent their heads to catch every sound that might indicate its fortune.
“See how Luke grins! watch his face!” whispered a low voice. “He doesn't care how it goes, now, he's out of it!” and so it was. Heffernan had already won two of the five tricks, and was safe whatever the result of the last one. The trial lay between M'Guire and Owen.