"What the devil's that?"
"'Alf o' bitter an' a pint of stout."
"A rattling good song too. I don't mind how often I hear it. Now I'm ready to take your money off you at piquet."
They played and Walker bullied his way to victory, bluffing his opponent, chaffing him, jeering at his mistakes, up to every dodge, browbeating him, exulting. Presently Mackintosh recovered his coolness, and standing outside himself, as it were, he was able to take a detached pleasure in watching the overbearing old man and in his own cold reserve. Somewhere Manuma sat quietly and awaited his opportunity.
Walker won game after game and pocketed his winnings at the end of the evening in high good humour.
"You'll have to grow a little bit older before you stand much chance against me, Mac. The fact is I have a natural gift for cards."
"I don't know that there's much gift about it when I happen to deal you fourteen aces."
"Good cards come to good players," retorted Walker. "I'd have won if I'd had your hands."
He went on to tell long stories of the various occasions on which he had played cards with notorious sharpers and to their consternation had taken all their money from them. He boasted. He praised himself. And Mackintosh listened with absorption. He wanted now to feed his hatred; and everything Walker said, every gesture, made him more detestable. At last Walker got up.
"Well, I'm going to turn in," he said with a loud yawn. "I've got a long day to-morrow."