“Make it a thousand, that’s a good bit of your street,” Bowker said coolly enough.
“Two,” said the doctor.
“Four,” answered Bowker.
The doctor began to wonder whether after all Bowker might not have a straight flush, but just then he felt sure that he saw the signs in his face he had noticed before.
“Eight,” said the doctor, and there was an expression in his bright eyes that meant danger, as he looked into the other’s face.
Bowker stared at his hand for some seconds, before, in a husky voice, he said—
“Sixteen. That’s about all your shanties are worth,” he added, seeming to gain courage.
“How much did you say, Brown—twenty-four thousand five hundred? Make it that; that’s the amount of my street and your shares, Bowker,” Gorman said, and we all noticed the tone of malice in his voice, which had kept calm and emotionless all through the play.
For a second or two Bowker did not answer. He looked like an elephant which had received its death-wound, so a man who had just come down from the Zambesi said.
“Twenty-four thousand five hundred. Well, I will make it up to that and go.” Then he stopped, as if he realised he had about got to the end of his tether.