They played cards, and Dyck won. He won five times what he had lost at the club. This made him companionable.
"It's a poor business-cards," he said at last. "It puts one up in the clouds and down in the ditch all at the same time. I tell you this, Boyne—I'm going to stop. No man ought to play cards who hasn't a fortune; and my fortune, I'm sorry to say, is only my face!" He laughed bitterly.
"And your sword—you've forgotten that, Calhoun. You've a lot of luck in your sword."
"Well, I've made no money out of it so far," Dyck retorted cynically.
"Yet you've put men with reputations out of the running, men like
Mallow."
"Oh, that was a bit of luck and a few tricks I've learned. I can't start a banking-account on that."
"But you can put yourself in the way of winning what can't be bought."
"No—no English army for me, thank you—if that's what you mean."
"It isn't what I mean. In the English army a man's a slave. He can neither eat, nor drink, nor sleep without being under command. He has to do a lot of dirty work without having voice in the policy. He's a child of discipline and order."
"And a damned good thing that would be for most of us!" retorted Dyck.
"But I'm not one of the most."