“That’s all right,” said Jackson. “Your I. O. U. goes with us. We ain’t like a boardin’-house keeper I used to know in Los Angeles, who had a sign hung out over his place: ‘We only trust God.’”
Stephen and Jackson sat down at the table, and the latter began to shuffle the cards vigorously.
“Another whisky, please,” called Stephen to Hankins. He spoke as if a “whisky please” were a special sort of drink.
“A beer for me too,” called Jackson. Hankins brought the drinks on a little tin tray. Before taking each glass from it, he mechanically clicked the bottom against the edge of the tray.
Stephen fumbled in his pocket for change.
“Don’t pay now,” drawled Jackson. “Drinks is on the game. Winner shells up for the pleasure he has had.”
Hankins joined them at the table, remarking as he sat down: “What’s the chips wuth?” He nodded assent to Stephen’s rather indistinct answer.
“Freeze-out? Play till some one goes broke? Let her drive, Jackie!”
Jackson dealt with rapid precision, emphasizing each round by banging his own card down hard on the table. All looked at their hands, while the dealer drawled softly: “Kyards, gents? Kyards—three for you, Mr. Loring?”