"I was lucky," he said. "I began to think, the first part of the game, that all was over with me."
Ben, silly dupe that he was, did not fathom the rascality of his companion.
"I don't think I played as well as usual," he said, ruefully.
"No, you didn't. Perhaps your hand has got a little out, you have played so many hours on a stretch."
Ben gave Winchester another due-bill for one hundred dollars, wondering how he should be able to meet it. He was rather frightened, and resolved not to play the next day. But when the next day came his resolution evaporated. I need not describe the wiles used by Arthur Winchester. It is enough that at the close of the coming day he held notes signed by Ben for three hundred dollars.
He assured the disturbed Ben that he needn't trouble himself about the matter; that he didn't need the money just yet. He would give him time to pay it in, and other things to the same effect. But having come to the conclusion that Ben had been bled as much as he could stand, he called him aside the next morning, and said:—
"I'm sorry to trouble you, my dear Brayton, but I've just had a letter recalling me to the city. Could you let me have that money as well as not, say this afternoon?"
"This afternoon!" exclaimed Ben, in dismay. "I don't see how I can get it at all."
"Do you mean to repudiate your debts of honor?" said Winchester, sternly.
"No," said Ben, faltering; "but I've got no money."