From out on the street came the voice of the Saint:
“It can’t be beat, folks. The more you lay down, the less you pick up. The hand is quicker than the eye, and this game was designed to prove it to you. Don’t bet, unless you want to lose.”
Duke watched Sleed closely, as he stared down at the pot.
“It’s luck that wins, Sleed; and you’re losin’ your luck.”
“What do you mean?” snapped Sleed, sitting up straight in his chair. “What do you mean?”
“She’s leavin’ you, Sleed. You know it, too. Shove in your money and prove it with the cards. It’s luck now. I’ll show you my card.”
Duke flipped his hole-card, disclosing a deuce of hearts.
“The little thin card, Sleed. Your card must be as good as mine; but my luck—my medicine—is stronger than yours. Your luck has left you.”
“Like hell it has!” croaked Sleed, and turned his card, the ace of spades, face up on the table. Nervously he shoved in chips, calling for another rack to match Duke’s bet.