"It didn't amount to anything," said Bodney, but not long afterward he won a ten dollar pot, found the fragments of the story, lying at the bottom of silence, and gave them voice. The winners laughed; the losers did not hear it.
A minute legitimately employed may seem an hour; an hour at a poker table may be but a minute.
Someone asked the time. Bodney looked at his watch, and said that it was five o'clock. He was nearly seventy dollars ahead, with the reserve fund still in his pocket, and was resolved to quit very soon. Just then Goyle emerged from a contest, broke. "Let me take ten," said he. Bodney hesitated a moment. "Say, I've got to pay for—"
"Oh, I'll give it to you tomorrow. Let me take ten."
He passed over the chips, but with a feeling of depression. "I may be broke pretty soon," said he. "And I can't let you have any more."
"Broke pretty soon! Why, you're even on your whole life. You got all my money."
"I haven't won as much from you as you have from me."
"That's all right. My day may come."
Bodney was determined to play no longer than dinner time. Then he would cash in. Goyle's stack grew to the amount of thirty dollars. Bodney was glad to see it grow; ten dollars of it belonged to him. He did not care for ten dollars; he had loaned Goyle ten times ten, and did not expect to recover the sum, but chips were different, and especially now that they fed his passion and dulled his conscience. Goyle got up. "Let me have that ten till tomorrow," said he, and Bodney did not say anything, but his spirits felt a sudden weight. He was pleased, however, when Goyle went out, for there were to be no more raids upon his stack. Dinner was announced. He motioned to an attendant upon the game, and his chips were taken over to the desk.
"Going to quit us?" a man asked.