"The six of clubs," reflected the mayor, throwing down another card. "Say, she's going fine now. There ain't much to it. You use two decks, exactly alike—shuffle 'em together—the eight of hearts—the jack of—say, that's great—you lay the cards down here, just as they come—like this—"
He paused. His huge hand held a giddy pasteboard. A troubled look was on his face. Then he smiled happily, and went on in triumph.
"And then you build, Mr. Kendrick," he said. "The reds and the blacks. You build the blacks on the left, and the reds on the right—do you get me? Then—say, what's the matter?"
For Kendrick had swayed and almost fallen on the admiral's game—the game that had once sent a man to hell.
"Go on," he said, bracing. "Nothing's the matter. Go on. Build, damn it, build!"
The mayor looked at him a moment in surprise, then continued.
"Now the king," he muttered, "now the ace. We're on the home stretch, going strong. There, it's finished. It's come out right. A great game, I tell you."
He leaned back. Kendrick's fever-yellowed face was like a bronze mask. His eyes were fiercely on the table and the two decks of cards that lay there.
"And when you've finished," he pointed. "When you've finished—"
Mr. Cargan picked up the deck on the left.