A ripple of exclamations ran about the circle of loungers as they leaned forward to see the hand upon which Frenchy had staked all that he owned.
“Deuces! By the jumping—four dirty deuces!”
“Deuces?”
“Four of ’em.”
“How’s that for a bluff?”
“Fool play!”
A buzzing undertone of comment filled the room and steadily grew into a chattering as of crows about a spot where something has just died. Frenchy seemed not to hear; he was busy filling and refilling glasses. The man with the four kings quietly raked in his winnings. “And the horses——?” he suggested.
Frenchy set the drained glass down with a bang, and with a snake-like forward thrusting of the head leered hideously at the winner. “Can’t you shut up about the horses?” He forced the words menacingly through his shut teeth.
A hush fell upon the loungers as they looked upon the pinched, malignant face with the upper lip lifted quiveringly and the close-set teeth showing beneath. This was no longer the Frenchy of legend; that Frenchy had always been known as one who lost or won large sums with the utter nervelessness of a machine. This was no longer the face of Frenchy—the gay, careless, haughty face of him who flirted with Fortune. This was a new Frenchy—a terrible Frenchy; with a coiled snake lurking just behind each glittering eyeball. This face sent a shiver through the crowd—like the sight of an ugly knife unsheathed in anger.
The loungers with affected carelessness began to move away. With a lightning sweep of the hands Frenchy drew his guns and banged them down violently on the table before him. “Stay where you are, gentlemen!” he said; “I’m going to talk and I want an audience. When I’m done talking, I’m off on the long trail and the first man that moves goes with me!”