“That will make it a nice, quick, little game,” Grief agreed.
The former method of play was repeated. Deacon lost two games, doubled the stake, and was again even. But Grief was patient, though the thing occurred several times in the next hour's play. Then happened what he was waiting for—a lengthening in the series of losing games for Deacon. The latter doubled to four thousand and lost, doubled to eight thousand and lost, and then proposed to double to sixteen thousand.
Grief shook his head. “You can't do that, you know. You're only ten thousand credit with the company.”
“You mean you won't give me action?” Deacon asked hoarsely. “You mean that with eight thousand of my money you're going to quit?”
Grief smiled and shook his head.
“It's robbery, plain robbery,” Deacon went on. “You take my money and won't give me action.”
“No, you're wrong. I'm perfectly willing to give you what action you've got coming to you. You've got two thousand pounds of action yet.”
“Well, we'll play it,” Deacon took him up. “You cut.”
The game was played in silence, save for irritable remarks and curses from Deacon. Silently the onlookers filled and sipped their long Scotch glasses. Grief took no notice of his opponent's outbursts, but concentrated on the game. He was really playing cards, and there were fifty-two in the deck to be kept track of, and of which he did keep track. Two thirds of the way through the last deal he threw down his hand.
“Cards put me out,” he said. “I have twenty-seven.”