“Well, you never mind about the time–you go ahead and beat me,” cried the sheriff. “Of all the nerve!”
Blake picked up the cards again: “Do you want to cut again?” he asked.
“Not a bit of it! That five stands!”
“Well, how would a four do?” asked the foreman, lifting his hand. “It’s a three!” he exulted. “All that time wasted,” he said.
“You go to blazes,” pleasantly replied the sheriff as he sorted his hand. “This ain’t so bad for you, not at all bad; you could have done worse, but I doubt it.” He discarded, cut, and Blake turned a six.
“Seven,” called Shields as he played.
“Seventeen,” replied Blake, playing a queen.
“No you don’t, either,” grinned the sheriff. “You can play that four later if you want to, but not now on twenty-seven. Call it twenty-five,” he said, playing an eight.
Blake carefully scanned his hand and finally played the four, grumbling a little as his friend laughed.
“Thirty-one–first blood,” remarked the sheriff, dropping the deuce.