The old lady had talked herself out of breath, while Rachel only laughed and put her winnings in her purse.
“I’ll cure him,” she said, “by winning all his money and leaving him without any! Won’t that do, Mrs. Van Santen?”
And she laughed archly at the gentle old lady, who shook her head and told her she was every bit as bad as the boys.
Meanwhile the play went on, sometimes at one game, and sometimes at another; and the luck varied a little, but only a little.
Denver Van Santen warned all those who wanted to play poker with him that they had better not unless they wanted to lose their money.
“I’ll back myself,” he said quite frankly, “to play poker against anybody. Against anybody—I don’t care who it is.”
And truly enough, although at other games the luck varied a good deal, it was hopeless to try to get the better of Denver at his favorite game.
Harry Van Santen, who was a plain, wrinkled man, with long teeth and a cold, funless smile, played bridge well, and won for the most part; but his luck was subject to variations, and when he reckoned up his fortune at the end of the play, he avowed himself a loser by two pounds ten.
But Denver pursued a boastful and victorious course, which remained uncheckered to the end. He was perfectly candid and honest about his winnings, reckoned them up openly, and found that he had made twenty-six pounds during the day. But he was so swaggeringly triumphant, so carelessly sure of always retaining the luck he had had that day, that he irritated some of the men, and got two or three promises, among them one from Sir William Gurdon, that he should not be allowed to win always. They would come another day and get their own back.
But Denver, laughing with great good humor, defied them all.