“No more than she is,” said Swede. “Raise you a whole bloomin’ pair of pants,” he bet, “and I better not lose!”
I could feel my face looked the picture of guilt.
“Two legs of my pants,” was my come-back.
“Call you,” grinned Swede. He showed a pair of jacks and a king, and I showed him a six, seven, a ten, and a queen and threespot.
“Hand over the wardrobe,” he said.
I stared at him. There was nothing under my pants but me. And my pants now belonged to Swede.
“Hand ’em over, Skipper,” he grinned.
Strip poker suddenly had become very unattractive.
“But—but—that’s all I got on,” I stuttered.
“What are you going to do, welsh?”