The Game Interrupted.
We played the first two or three games for low stakes—a dollar each. This was agreeable to the desire of Hatcher and the pork-merchant—who did not like to risk much as they had nearly forgotten the game. Both, however, made “hedge bets” freely against my partner, Chorley, and against any one who chose to take them up. These bets were on the turn-up, the colour, the “honours,” or the “odd trick.”
My partner and I won the two first games, and rapidly. I noted several instances of bad play on the part of our opponent. I began to believe that they really were not a match for us. Chorley said so with an air of triumph, as though we were playing merely for the honour of the thing, and the stakes were of no consequence. After a while, as we won another game, he repeated the boast.
The pork-dealer and his partner seemed to get a little nettled.
“It’s the cards,” said the latter, with an air of pique.
“Of coorse it’s the cards,” repeated white-hat. “Had nothing but darned rubbish since the game begun. Thar again!”
“Bad cards again?” inquired his partner with a sombre countenance.
“Bad as blazes! couldn’t win corn-shucks with ’em.”
“Come, gentlemen!” cried my partner, Chorley; “not exactly fair that—no hints.”
“Bah!” ejaculated the dealer. “Mout show you my hand, for that matter. Thar ain’t a trick in it.”