“There is no license for a man to be less than a man. Ten thousand pounds cannot purchase such a license.”
At the beginning of the reading Deacon's face had gone white with anger. Then had arisen, from neck to forehead, a slow and terrible flush that deepened to the end of the reading.
“There, that will be all,” Grief said, as he folded the paper and tossed it to the centre of the table. “Are you still ready to play the game?”
“I deserve it,” Deacon muttered brokenly. “I've been an ass. Mr. Gee, before I know whether I win or lose, I want to apologize. Maybe it was the whiskey, I don't know, but I'm an ass, a cad, a bounder—everything that's rotten.”
He held out his hand, and the half-caste took it beamingly.
“I say, Grief,” he blurted out, “the boy's all right. Call the whole thing off, and let's forget it in a final nightcap.”
Grief showed signs of debating, but Deacon cried:
“No; I won't permit it. I'm not a quitter. If it's Karo-Karo, it's Karo-Karo. There's nothing more to it.”
“Right,” said Grief, as he began the shuffle. “If he's the right stuff to go to Karo-Karo, Karo-Karo won't do him any harm.”
The game was close and hard. Three times they divided the deck between them and “cards” was not scored. At the beginning of the fifth and last deal, Deacon needed three points to go out, and Grief needed four. “Cards” alone would put Deacon out, and he played for “cards”. He no longer muttered or cursed, and played his best game of the evening. Incidentally he gathered in the two black aces and the ace of hearts.