Regan didn't play much of a game of pedro that night—his heart wasn't in it. Carleton had barely dealt the first hand when Regan heard the 304 backing down and coupling on the local, and he got up from his chair and walked to the window, and stood there watching until the local pulled out.
Carleton didn't say anything—just dealt the cards over again, and began once more as Regan resumed his seat.
An hour passed. Regan, fidgety and nervous, played in a desultory fashion; Carleton, disturbed, patiently correcting the master mechanic's mistakes. The game was a farce.
"What's the matter, Tommy?" asked Carleton gravely, as Regan made a misdeal twice in succession.
"Nothing," said Regan shortly. "Go on, play; it's your bid."
Carleton shook his head.
"You're taking it too much to heart, Tommy," he said. "It won't do you any good—either of you—you or Dan. He'll pull out of it somehow. You'll see."
There was a queer look on Regan's face as he stared for an instant at Carleton across the table, and he opened his lips as though to say something—and closed them again in a hard line instead.
Carleton bid.
"It's yours," said Regan.