lit gardens, and the money clinked on the green board. “Good God!” he thought, “am I gambling again?” He looked the more curiously about the sandy table. He and Mac had played and won like gamblers; the mingled gold and silver lay by their places in the heap. Amalu and Hemstead had each more than held their own, but Tommy was cruel far to leeward, and the captain was reduced to perhaps fifty pounds.
“I say, let's knock off,” said Carthew.
“Give that man a glass of Buckle,” said someone, and a fresh bottle was opened, and the game went inexorably on.
Carthew was himself too heavy a winner to withdraw or to say more; and all the rest of the night he must look on at the progress of this folly, and make gallant attempts to lose with the not uncommon consequence of winning more. The first dawn of the 11th February found him well-nigh desperate. It chanced he was then dealer, and still winning. He had just dealt a round of many tens; every one had staked heavily; the captain had put up all that remained to him—twelve pounds in gold and a few dollars—and Carthew, looking privately at his cards before he showed them, found he held a natural.
“See here, you fellows,” he broke out, “this is a sickening business, and I'm done with it for one.” So saying, he showed his cards, tore them across, and rose from the ground.
The company stared and murmured in mere amazement; but Mac stepped gallantly to his support.
“We've had enough of it, I do believe,” said he. “But of course it was all fun, and here's my counters back. All counters in, boys!” and he began to pour his winnings into the chest, which stood fortunately near him.
