A dead silence fell upon the room. The Kid, lurching in his chair, stared in a dazed, stunned way at the other's cards—and then his face went a deathly white. One hand crept aimlessly to his forehead and brushed across his eyes; and after a moment, leaning heavily upon the table, he stood up, still swaying. But he was not swaying from drunkenness now. The shock seemed to have sobered him, bringing a haggard misery into his eyes. The crowd watched, making no comment. Three-Ace Artie, without lifting his eyes, was calmly engaged in stacking the gold eagles into little piles in front of him. The Kid moistened his lips with his tongue, attempted to speak—and succeeded only in * swallowing hard once or twice. Then, with a pitiful effort to pull himself together, he forced a smile.
“I—I can't play any more,” he said. “I'm cleaned out”—and turned away from the table.
The crowd made way for him, following him with its eyes as he crossed the room and disappeared through a back door at the side of the bar, making evidently for his “hotel” room upstairs. Three-Ace Artie said nothing—he was imperturbably pocketing the gold eagles now. The crowd drifted away from the table, dispersed around the room, and some went out. Three-Ace Artie rose from the table and carried the chips back to the bar.
“Guess I'll cash in, Mac,” he drawled.
The proprietor pushed the two pokes across the bar.
“Step up, gentlemen!” invited the gambler amiably, wheeling with his back against the bar to face the room.
An air of uneasiness, an awkward tension had settled upon the place. Some few more went out; but the others, as though glad of the relief afforded the situation by Three-Ace Artie's invitation, stepped promptly forward.
Three-Ace Artie's hand encircled a stiff four-fingers of raw spirit.
“Here's how!” he said—and drained his glass.
Somebody “set them up” again; Three-Ace Artie repeated the performance—and MacDonald's resumed its normal poise.