There was a murmur of excited voices, and one rose hoarse and a trifle shaky in the consonants above the rest.
“Show you how a gentleman can stand up, boys. Throw them out again. Two hundred this time on the game!”
There was silence and the rustle of shuffled cards; then once more the voices went up. “Against him! Better let up before he takes your farm. Oh, let him face it and show his grit—the man who slings round his hundreds can afford to lose!”
The lad’s face showed a trifle paler through the drifting smoke, though a good many of the cigars had gone out now, and once more there was the stillness of expectancy through which a strained voice rose.
“Going to get it all back. I’ll stake you four hundred.”
Witham rose and moved forward quietly, with Dane behind him, and then stood still where he could see the table. He had also very observant eyes, and was free from the excitement of those who had a risk on the game. Still, when the cards were dealt, it was the gambler’s face he watched. For a brief space nobody moved, and then the lad flung down his cards and stood up with a greyness in his cheeks and his hands shaking.
“You’ve got all my dollars now,” he said. “Still, I’ll play you for doubles if you’ll take my paper.”
The gambler nodded, and flung down a big pile of bills. “I guess I’ll trust you. Mine are here.”
The bystanders waited motionless, and none of them made a bet, for any stakes they could offer would be trifles now; but they glanced at the lad who stood tensely still, while Witham watched the face of the man at the table in front of him. For a moment he saw a flicker of triumph in his eyes, and that decided him. Again, one by one, the cards went down, and then, when everybody waited in strained expectancy, the lad seemed to grow limp suddenly and groaned.
“You can let up,” he said hoarsely. “I’ve gone down!”