At that, there was a sort of new note in Kennedy’s smile—a trace of real feeling—when he looked at her; and his eyes were a little less hard, maybe.
But the adulation was principally on her part. From the time the game started he seemed to avoid even looking at her. He played quietly, as did everybody. Every man around that table was a lover of poker and a hater of conversation when the pasteboards were being wooed. Even Shirley had had it bred in the bone, I guess, and never said a word. She tended to the ash receivers, brought us drinks, and finally went out on the porch to throw a ten-minute sop to a boy friend who had called on her.
The game was twenty-dollar take out, table stakes, and either draw or stud, to be played at the option of the dealers. Penoch watched Kennedy like a hawk, and so did I, on general principles. Not that I really thought he’d try his tricks there.
The most amazing thing to me was his utter nonchalance. He knew what Penoch was going to do before the evening was over; and he grinned into the little flyer’s face and dared him with his eyes.
It was close to ten o’clock, and I was about fifty dollars ahead, Penoch even, and Kennedy sixty dollars winner. We’d been taking the two old-timers over the jumps, to our great glee and their humorous disgust.
It was Kennedy’s deal. He shuffled them, and I saw him casually put an ace on the bottom before he started. When he finished, he gave the cards a rapid double cut—bottom half of the deck placed on top, but a little forward of the other half of the deck. Then he simply cut again, and that little shelf between the two halves of the deck enabled him to replace the cards exactly. That is, after two cuts, the cards lay exactly as they had before he’d cut them, the first time.
It was my cut, and he did not offer it, but started dealing.
My eyes were busy from that moment on. My heart was pounding as I visualized the possibilities. Maybe I could get Penoch out of the mess.
Card after card fell. Kennedy was high, with a king showing, and held the bet until the fourth card had dropped, when Sheriff Trowbridge drew an ace. I stayed, and Kennedy raised ten dollars. That dropped Penoch and Mr. Curran. The sheriff came back with a thirty-dollar re-raise, and I, with a pair of fours, dropped and devoted myself to watching. Had that cut been an accident? If it hadn’t, how had Kennedy stacked them for himself? Or did his crookedness merely include the placing of one lone ace to use if necessary?
He came back with a fifty-dollar raise—his stack. The sheriff, who had bought four times already and had plenty of chips in front of him, saw the raise.