The game was played in silence, save for irritable remarks and curses from Deacon. Silently the onlookers filled and sipped their long Scotch glasses. Grief took no notice of his opponent's outbursts, but concentrated on the game. He was really playing cards, and there were fifty-two in the deck to be kept track of, and of which he did keep track. Two thirds of the way through the last deal he threw down his hand.
"Cards put me out," he said. "I have twenty-seven."
"If you've made a mistake," Deacon threatened, his face white and drawn.
"Then I shall have lost. Count them."
Grief passed over his stack of takings, and Deacon, with trembling fingers, verified the count. He half shoved his chair back from the table and emptied his glass. He looked about him at unsympathetic faces.
"I fancy I'll be catching the next steamer for Sydney," he said, and for the first time his speech was quiet and without bluster.
As Grief told them afterward: "Had he whined or raised a roar I wouldn't have given him that last chance. As it was, he took his medicine like a man, and I had to do it."
Deacon glanced at his watch, simulated a weary yawn, and started to rise.
"Wait," Grief said. "Do you want further action?"
The other sank down in his chair, strove to speak, but could not, licked his dry lips, and nodded his head.