I thought that I had him. Forthwith he straightened alertly, spoke tartly.
“The game is closed, gentlemen. Remember, you are wagering on the first turn. There are no splits in monte. Not at this table. Our friend says the right-end card. You, sir,” and he addressed Jim. “They are backing you. Which do you say is the queen? Lay your finger on her.”
Jim so did, with a finger stubby, and dirty under the nail.
“That is the card, is it? You are agreed?” he queried us, sweeping his cold gray eyes from face to face. “We’ll have no crabbing.”
We nodded, intently eying the card, fearful yet, some of us, that it might be denied us.
“You, sir, then.” And he addressed me. “You are the heaviest better. Suppose you turn the card for yourself and those other gentlemen.”
I obediently reached for it. My hand trembled. 126 There were sixty or seventy dollars upon the table, and my own contribution was my last cent. As I fumbled I felt the strain of bodies pressing against mine, and heard the hiss of feverish breaths, and a foolish laugh or two. Nevertheless the silence seemed overpowering.
I turned the card—the card with the bent corner, of which I was as certain as of my own name; I faced it up, confidently, my capital already doubled; and amidst a burst of astonished cries I stared dumbfounded.
It was the eight of clubs! My fingers left it as though it were a snake. It was the eight of clubs! Where I had seen, in fancy, the queen of hearts, there lay like a changeling the eight of clubs, with corner bent as only token of the transformation.
The crowd elbowed about me. With rapid movement the gambler raked in the bets—a slender hand flashed by me—turned the next card. The queen that was, after all.