Balshannon went grey, the cigarette dropped from his fingers. "Dead," he muttered, "dead." Then he looked up with a sort of queer smile. "Anything else?" he asked quite cheerfully.
"Say, Dook," said Louisiana, "I'd hate to see you struck from not watching yo' game."
"Thanks, Pete." Balshannon staked out the whole of his winnings, then picked up the cigarette, struck a match, and lighted it slowly.
"Come home!" the boy was whispering. "Come home!"
Jim saw the tears rolling down his father's face, and splashing on the chips. "What's the use, my boy?" he said very softly. "Would that bring your mother back?"
"Come home! Come home!"
"I'm winning back our home!"
Then Low-Lived Joe drew a card, and as the boy went staggering away a great yell went up. Balshannon was winning back his home.
Jim says he felt sick when he quit his father, cold down the back, and the floor was all aslant and spinning round. Then everything went black, and he dropped.
When he woke up he felt much better, lying flat on the floor with iced water trickling over his face. That little one-eyed cripple was feeding brandy to him.