XI
Late in the night they were still playing without a change in their positions. Em still perspired; but Mr. Ottinger no longer protruded his tongue, a sullen anger was evident in his every move; Jake’s affable flow of conversation was hushed; Gordon’s face set. It was, indisputably, not funny—he had won nearly two hundred dollars. “Make it ten?” Jake queried. The others nodded. Now Gordon had two hundred and twenty dollars; an extraordinary, overwhelming luck presided over his cards, he won more frequently than the other three together. A tense silence enveloped the latter: they shuffled, demanded cards, threw down their hands, in a hurried, disorganized fashion. They glanced, each at the other, swiftly; it was evident that a common idea, other than the game, possessed them. Jake hovered a breath longer than necessary over the bottle, then pressed a drink upon Gordon. He refused; this, he recognized, was not a time for dissipation; he needed every faculty.
Two hundred and sixty dollars. The air of suppression, of tension, increased. Gordon’s only concern now was to get away, to take the money with him.
Em shuffled in a slipshod, inattentive manner; Mr. Ottinger opened his hand boldly, faced his bad luck with a stony eye; Jake labored under a painful excitement, obviously not connected with his losses; his long, waxy fingers quivered, a feverish point of fire flickered in either cadaverous cheek; his eyes glowed between hollow, sunken temples. “Four,” he demanded, with shaking lips. Mr. Ottinger rapped out a request for one. “I’m satisfied,” Gordon said.
“Don’t that sucker beat hell!” Em declared, the solicitous manner that, earlier in the evening, had marked her manner toward Gordon, carelessly discarded. “I’m taking three.” A sudden, visible boredom fell upon her as she glanced at her filled hand. “Leave us double it,” she remarked. Gordon nodded, and she threw her hand upon the table; it held four nines. She reached her fat, chalky arm toward the money, but Gordon was before her. “Four queens,” he shot out, grasping the crumpled bills.
Em cursed; then followed a short, awkward silence. It was Ottinger’s deal, but he did not pick up the scattered cards. Gordon gathered himself alertly, measuring the distance to the door. “I’ve got enough,” he remarked; “I’m going to quit.”
“You got enough, all right,” Em agreed. “Now, how’d you like to have a real good time?” She disposed herself upon her elbow, so that the sagging bulk of her body was emphasized through its straining apparel; one leg, incredible, leviathan, was largely visible.
“I’ve had enough,” Gordon repeated; “I’ll be moving.”
Em rose quickly, losing her air of coquetry. Gordon was facing the men, and was unprepared for the heavy blow she dealt upon the back of his neck. “Hang it on him, Otty!” she cried excitedly.