An hour! There was fever in Maurice's veins, but it was not caused wholly by the heat of the wine. How should he manage it? He must have that revolver.
“Call? What have you got?” asked the Colonel.
“Three kings—no, by George! only a pair. I thought a queen was a king. My head's beginning to get shaky. Colonel, I believe I am getting drunk.”
“I am sure of it.”
Maurice got up and rolled in an extraordinary fashion, but he was careful not to overdo it. He began to sing. The Colonel got up, too, and he was laughing. Maurice accidentally knocked over some empty bottles; he kicked them about.
“Sh!” cried the Colonel, coming around the table; “you'll stampede the horses.”
Maurice staggered toward him, and the Colonel caught him in his arms. Maurice suddenly drew back, and the Colonel found himself looking into the cavernous tube of his own revolver. Not a muscle in his face moved.
“Take off your coat,” said Maurice, quietly.
The Colonel complied. “You are not so very drunk just now.”
“No. It was one of those bluffs when you make them think you haven't them when you have.”