"The rising young artist," said Loring with a flash of white teeth, "is trying to get up a whist game, to pass away the time. Will you gentlemen assist?" He turned aside in a paroxysm of coughing.
"Certainly, certainly—that is, if Mr. Thompson plays.——That's a bad cough you've got there, Loring."
"Yes—caught cold fishing," said the artist. "Will you join us, Mr.
Thompson?"
"Glad to," said that worthy. "Only my game is bumble-puppy. You can hardly call it whist. Who's the fourth?"
"Yet to be found," laughed Loring. After a few rebuffs they picked up a drummer, and adjourned to the smoker, buying a deck from the train boy. The little dark man and Steve played against the other two, a suitcase on their knees serving as a table. They played a rubber. Steve verified his statements as to his style of play.
"Well, that's enough—nearly in," said Loring, as they drew near their destination.
"Yes, indeed. I must go back to my car. We've had a pleasant game," said the fourth man, taking his leave.
"Have a smoke—you'll find these A 1," said the artist. "Say, Mitchell, I've learned a new trick to illustrate the old saying that the hand is quicker than the eye." Sticking a cigar in the corner of his mouth, he ran over the cards swiftly, took out the two red jacks, and held them up, one in each hand, backs toward himself, faces to Mitchell and Steve.
"Now," he said, "you can put these two jacks in the deck wherever you wish, shuffle them all you please, let me give them just one riffle, and you'll find them both together." He put his handkerchief to his lips and turned away to cough, laying the two jacks face downward on the table.
With a nudge to Steve, Mitchell threw the jack of hearts under Loring's seat, where it lay, face up, substituting therefor the five of clubs from the top of the deck.