His hand stole back and hot fingers reached out to touch with sensitive tips that cool surface. His nostrils worked to catch the scent of the stuff. His hand was around the glass.
"I'm staying."
"You are—for five more."
VB's fingers tightened about the thing, squeezed it in the palm of his hand. It had felt cool at first; now it was like fire. The muscles of that arm strove to lift it. His inner mind struggled, declared against the intention, weakened, yielded, and—
"Well, I'm through. Fight it out."
The man at VB's right dropped his cards in disgust and with a quick movement reached for his drink.
His nervous, hot hand closed on VB's and their surprised glances met.
"Excuse me," muttered VB.
"Sure!" said the other, surly over his lost stake, and gulped down the whisky.
Two of the players went broke in that pot. The fourth had a scant remnant of his original stack left, and VB was loser. The two who had failed shoved back their hats and yawned, almost simultaneously.