He dragged another chair to the table, unbuttoned and cast off his jumper, gave the hat another low tug, and tossed a yellow-backed twenty to the table. The chips were shoved toward him.
"Jacks or better," the dealer said, and shot the cards about the board.
VB won a pot. He bet eagerly on the next and lost. Then he won again. The game interested him for the moment.
"Oh, just one more li'l' drink!" cried the garrulous cowboy at the bar.
VB had passed the opening, went in later, drew three cards, failed to help his tens, and hiked the bet! Called, he dropped the hand; and the winner, showing aces up, stared at the boy who had bet against openers on lone tens. He noticed that VB's hands trembled, and he wondered. He could not feel VB's throat. Nor could he hear the careless plea of the sotted rider for just one more drink ringing in VB's burning brain.
A big pot was played and the winner, made happy, said:
"Well, I'll buy a drink."
The bartender, hearing, came to the table.
"What'll it be?" he asked.
"Whisky," said the man on VB's right, and the word went around the circle.