“O, rot!” said Carthew. “Tommy and I are bursting already. We can take half a sov. each, and let the other three have forty shillings.”
“I’ll tell you now, it’s not worth splitting,” broke in Mac. “I’ve cards in my chest. Why don’t you play for the lump sum?”
In that idle place the proposal was accepted with delight. Mac, as the owner of the cards, was given a stake; the sum was played for in five games of cribbage; and when Amalu, the last survivor in the tournament, was beaten by Mac it was found the dinner-hour was past. After a hasty meal they fell again immediately to cards, this time (on Carthew’s proposal) to Van John. It was then probably two P.M. of the 9th of February, and they played with varying chances for twelve hours, slept heavily, and rose late on the morrow to resume the game. All day on the 10th, with grudging intervals for food, and with one long absence on the part of Tommy, from which he returned dripping with the case of sherry, they continued to deal and stake. Night fell; they drew the closer to the fire. It was maybe two in the morning, and Tommy was selling his deal by auction, as usual with that timid player, when Carthew, who didn’t intend to bid, had a moment of leisure and looked round him. He beheld the moonlight on the sea, the money piled and scattered in that incongruous place, the perturbed faces of the players. He felt in his own breast the familiar tumult; and it seemed as if there rose in his ears a sound of music, and the moon seemed still to shine upon a sea, but the sea was changed, and the Casino towered from among lamp-lit gardens, and the money clinked on the green board. “Good God!” he thought, “am I gambling again?” He looked the more curiously about the sandy table. He and Mac had played and won like gamblers; the mingled gold and silver lay by their places in the heap. Amalu and Hemstead had each more than held their own, but Tommy was cruel far to leeward, and the captain was reduced to perhaps fifty pounds.
“I say, let’s knock off,” said Carthew.
“Give that man a glass of Buckle,” said some one, and a fresh bottle was opened, and the game went inexorably on.
Carthew was himself too heavy a winner to withdraw or to say more, and all the rest of the night he must look on at the progress of this folly, and make gallant attempts to lose, with the not uncommon consequence of winning more. The first dawn of the 11th February found him well-nigh desperate. It chanced he was then dealer, and still winning. He had just dealt a round of many tens; every one had staked heavily. The captain had put up all that remained to him—twelve pounds in gold and a few dollars,—and Carthew, looking privately at his cards before he showed them, found he held a natural.
“See here, you fellows,” he broke out, “this is a sickening business, and I’m done with it for one.” So saying, he showed his cards, tore them across, and rose from the ground.
The company stared and murmured in mere amazement; but Mac stepped gallantly to his support.
“We’ve had enough of it, I do believe,” said he. “But of course it was all fun, and here’s my counters back. All counters in, boys!” and he began to pour his winnings into the chest, which stood fortunately near him.
Carthew stepped across and wrung him by the hand. “I’ll never forget this,” he said.