“These three are the cards,” he said, speaking rapidly. “There is the jack of hearts. I pass my hands—so. Pick the jack, one of you,” he challenged, leaning back from the cracker-box on which lay the three cards, back up. “Any of you,” he urged. “You, North.”
Thus directly singled out, the foreman leaned forward and rather hesitatingly laid a blunt forefinger on one of the bits of pasteboard.
Without a word, Newmark turned it over. It was the ten of spades.
“Let me try,” interposed Tim Nolan, pressing his big shoulders forward. “I bet I know which it was that time; and I bet I can pick her next time.”
“Oh, yes, you BET!” shrugged Newmark. “And that's where the card-sharps get you fellows every time. Well, pick it,” said he, again deftly flipping the cards.
Nolan, who had watched keenly, indicated one without hesitation. Again it proved to be the ten of spades.
“Anybody else ambitious?” inquired Newmark. Everybody was ambitious; and the young man, with inexhaustible patience, threw out the cards, the corners of his mouth twitching sardonically at each wrong guess.
At length he called a halt.
“By this time I'd have had all your money,” he pointed out. “Now, I'll pick the jack.”
For the last time he made his swift passes and distributed the cards. Then quite calmly, without disturbing the three on the cracker-box, he held before their eyes the jack of hearts.