“I only have to play whist,” explained Hornblower. “Only that. From twelve midday until two in the morning I’m here to play whist with any three that need a fourth.”
“I see,” said Bush.
“The Marquis in his generosity also makes me free of these rooms I have no subscription to pay. No table money. And I can keep my winnings.”
“And pay your losses?”
Hornblower shrugged.
“Naturally. But the losses do not come as often as one might think. The reason’s simple enough. The whist players who find it hard to obtain partners and who are cold-shouldered by the others, are naturally the bad players. Strangely anxious to play, even so. And when the Marquis happens to be in here and Major Jones and Admiral Smith and Mr. Robinson are seeking a fourth while everyone seems strangely preoccupied he catches my eye—the sort of reproving look a wife might throw at a husband talking too loud at a dinner party—and I rise to my feet and offer to be the fourth. It is odd they are flattered to play with Hornblower, as often it costs them money.”
“I see,” said Bush again, and he remembered Hornblower standing by the furnace in Fort Samaná organizing the firing of redhot shot at the Spanish privateers.
“The life is not entirely one of beer and skittles, naturally,” went on Hornblower; with the dam once broken he could not restrain his loquacity. “After the fourth hour or so it becomes irksome to play with bad players. When I go to Hell I don’t doubt that my punishment will be always to partner players who pay no attention to my discards. But then on the other hand I frequently play a rubber or two with the good players. There are moments when I would rather lose to a good player than win from a bad one.”
“That’s just the point,” said Bush, harking back to an old theme. “How about the losses?”
Bush’s experiences of gambling had mostly been of losses, and in this hardheaded moment he could remember the times when he had been weak.