They tiptoed up to the half-open door and, holding himself well within the shadow of the corridor, Abe peeped in. It was ten o'clock of a sunny fall day, but the dark shades of room eighty-nine were drawn and the electric lights were blazing away as though it were still midnight. Beneath the lights was a small, oblong table at which sat three men, and in front of each of them stood a small pile of chips. Marks Pasinsky was dealing.
"A-ah, Katzen, you ruined that hand," Marks Pasinsky said as he flipped out the cards three at a time. "Why didn't you lead it out the ace of Schüppe right at the start? What did you expect to do with it? Eat it?"
Katzen nodded sleepily.
"The way I feel now, Pasinsky, I could eat most anything," he retorted. "I could eat a round trip, if I had a cup of coffee with it, so hungry I am. Let's have some supper."
"Supper!" Pasinsky cried. "What do you want supper for? The game is young yet."
"Shall I tell you something?" the third hand—a stranger to Abe—said. "You both played that hand like Strohschneiders. Pasinsky sits there with two nines of trump in his hand and don't lead 'em through me. You could have beat me by a million very easy."
He waved his hand with the palm outward and flapped his four fingers derisively.
"You call yourself a pinochle player!" he jeered, and fell to twisting his huge red mustache with his fingers.
Abe nodded an involuntary approval, and then as silently as they had arrived he and the bell-boy retreated toward the elevator shaft.
"Dem guys is card fiends all right," the bell-boy commented. "Dey started in at five o'clock last night."