"I do not want a drink," said the Russian, in a surly tone, pushing the bottle aside.
"Ah, ha! My friend is getting nervous. He is afraid he is going to lose and so he will not drink. Sapristi! It is all the same to me. I get the brandy and the girl, too."
"Play!" snapped Stabutch.
"You are in a hurry to lose," taunted Capietro.
"To win," corrected Stabutch, and he did.
Now it was the Italian's turn to curse and rage at luck, and once again the cards were dealt and the players picked up their hands.
"It is the last game," said Stabutch.
"We have each won two," replied Capietro. "Let us drink to the winner—although I dislike proposing a toast to myself," and he laughed again, but this time there was an ugly note in his laughter.
In silence, now, they resumed their play. One by one the little pasteboards fell upon the rug. The girl looked on in wondering silence. There was a tenseness in the situation that she felt, without understanding. Poor little Jezebel, she understood so little!
Suddenly, with a triumphant oath, Capietro sprang to his feet. "I win!" he cried. "Come, friend, drink with me to my good fortune."