The game had stopped, for the moment, and the dealer was leaning back with his hand upon the pack, waiting. There was a look upon his face of languid interest under the mask of indifference, as he gazed at the young fellow opposite, his face flushed now with impotent rage, and at the man leaning over him. The face above was flushed with anger, too, but it was not impotent. If Sally had seen it she would have been reminded of her father. The sight seemed to remind the dealer of something, but it was impossible to guess whether that something was pleasant or otherwise. Many things had happened to him which were not pleasant to think of. Indeed, the pleasant things were very few. He did not think of his past when he could help it. It was a thing to be avoided.
"Come, Charlie," said Everett again, sharply. "You're to get up and go. We're all waiting."
Charlie seemed to be divided between his long admiration of Everett—of what he said and did and was—and his helpless anger. He wavered.
"You mean that I have got to leave the game?" he sputtered at last. "Why have I?" He hesitated a moment, looking from the cards to the dealer who still had that little look of languid interest upon his face. In fact, it was almost compelling a smile on the thin lips. Charlie could not have stood that. He looked away again quickly, but he did not look at Everett. He could not have stood that, either. "No," he said, with a sudden accession of courage, "I won't do it. The game can go on."
The dealer did not move a muscle. Everett smiled. "You see," he answered, "that it will not go on with you in it. I'm right, Charlie?" he added, glancing up at the dealer; but it was less a question than a command.
The dealer nodded. Still Charlie Ladue did not move.
"Come, Ladue," Everett ordered impatiently. "Don't make them put you out. Cash in and go along. You know very well why. I promised to start you and I'm going to. And, let me tell you, I can do it."
There was nothing else to do. Charlie muttered something and rose slowly and pushed his chair back violently in a fit of childish anger. Instantly the chair was taken and the game was going on almost before he had his back turned. Everett kept close beside him until he had his coat and hat, and he even went down to the door with him. Eugene was waiting there, but he said nothing. He was much mortified at his complete failure and at Everett's complete success. The grinning black opened the door.
"Good night, Spencer," said Everett. "And good night, Charlie. If you take my advice, you'll give it up."
The door shut behind the two and Everett went upstairs again. He paid no attention to the game, but walked into the dimly lighted back room and to the sideboard. He felt out of sorts with himself and with everybody and everything else. He must be thirsty; and he poured himself out a glass and stood sipping it and looking absently at the heavily curtained windows at the rear. There did not happen to be anybody else at the sideboard.