"I am afraid he is a fool, after all," she thought. "Why didn't he—"
The Englishman was dealing abstractedly. He had to be reminded to look at his own hand.
Sam drew three cards, Morton three. This time three of the Englishman's chips crossed the blanket to the other side. He showed not even a pair.
"It's plain robbery," whispered Rosalind to herself. "The man doesn't know the first thing about poker. Can they really be serious?"
A second look at the boatman's pistol reminded her that they probably were.
For five minutes the game progressed. Twice, by an accident of fate, the Englishman gathered the pot, but for the most part his own pile was receding chip by chip. Even in his winning moments he seemed bored almost to the point of somnolence. The boatman alternately grinned and whistled.
"I'll just tap you for what you've got," Sam said after examining his final draw. "Two checks, I believe."
"This is a deuced stupid game, you know," remarked Morton as he pushed the last of his stack to the center.
"Doesn't strike you quite so favorably as bridge, eh?"
"Rather—not."