Part 11 (1/2)
In number two ”Poker” John and his companions were already getting to work when Bill and his friends entered. Beyond a casual remark they seemed to take little notice of each other. One and all were eager to begin the play.
A deep silence quickly fell upon the room. It was the silence of suppressed excitement. A silence only broken by monosyllabic and almost whispered betting and ”raising” as the games proceeded. An hour pa.s.sed thus. At the table where Lablache and John Allandale were playing the usual luck prevailed. The money-lender seemed unable to do wrong, and at the other table Bunning-Ford was faring correspondingly badly. Pedro Mancha, the Mexican, a man of obscure past and who lived no one quite knew how, but who always appeared to find the necessary to gamble with, was the favored one of dame Fortune. Already he had heaped before him a pile of ”bills” and I.O.U.'s most of which bore ”Lord” Bill's signature.
Looking on at either table, no one from outward signs could have said which way the luck was going. Only the scribblings of the pencils upon the memo pads and the gradual acc.u.mulation of the precious slips of paper before Lablache at one table and the wild-eyed, dark-skinned Mexican at the other, told the story of the ruin which was surely being accomplished.
At length, with a loser's privilege, Bunning-Ford, after glancing at his watch, rose from the table. His lean face was in no way disturbed. He seemed quite indifferent to his losses.
”I'll quit you, Pedro,” he said, smiling lazily down at the Mexican.
”You're a bit too hot for me to-day.”
The dark-skinned man smiled a vague, non-committing smile and displayed a double row of immaculate teeth.
”Good. You shall have your revenge. Doubtless you would like some of these papers back,” he said, as he swept them leisurely into his pocket-book, and then sugar-bagging a cigarette paper he poured a few grains of granulated tobacco into it.
”Yes, I daresay I shall relieve you of some later on,” replied Bill, quietly. Then he turned to the other table and stood watching the play.
He glanced anxiously at the bare table in front of the old rancher. Even Dr. Abbot was well stocked with slips of paper. Then his gaze fell upon the money-lender, behind whose huge back he was standing.
He moved slightly to one side. It is an unwritten law amongst poker players, in a public place in the west of the American continent, that no onlooker should stand immediately behind any player. He moved to Lablache's right. The money-lender was dealing. ”Lord” Bill lit a cigarette.
The cards were dealt round. Then the draw. Then Lablache laid the pack down. Bunning-Ford had noted these things mechanically. Then something caught his attention. It was his very indifference which caused his sudden attention. Had he been following the game with his usual keenness he would only have been thinking of the betting.
Lablache was writing upon his memo, pad, which was a gorgeous effort in silver mounting. One of those oblong blocks with a broad band of burnished silver at the binding of the perforated leaves. He knew that this was the pad the money-lender always used; anyway, it was similar in all respects to his usual memorandum pads.
How it was his attention had become fixed upon that pad he could not have told, but now an inspiration came to him. His face remained unchanged in its expression, but those lazy eyes of his gleamed wickedly as he leisurely puffed at his cigarette.
The bet went round. Lablache raised and raised again. Eventually the rancher ”saw” him. The other took the pool. No word was spoken, but ”Lord” Bill gritted his teeth and viciously pitched his cigarette to the other end of the room.
During the next two deals he allowed his attention to wander. Lablache dropped out one hand, and, in the next, he merely ”filled” his ”ante”
and allowed the doctor to take in the pool. John Allandale's face was serious. The nervous twitching of the cheek was still, but the drawn lines around his mouth were in no way hidden by his gray mustache, nor did the eager light which burned luridly in his eyes for one moment deceive the onlooker as to the anxiety of mind which his features masked.
Now it was Lablache's deal. ”Lord” Bill concentrated his attention upon the dealer. The money-lender was left-handed. He held the pack in his right, and, in dealing, he was slow and slightly clumsy. The object of Bunning-Ford's attention quickly became apparent. Each card as it left the pack was pa.s.sed over the burnished silver of the dealer's memorandum pad. It was smartly done, and Lablache was a.s.sisted by the fact that the piece of metal was inclined towards him. There was no necessity to look down deliberately to see the reflection of each card as it pa.s.sed on its way to its recipient, a glance--just the glance necessary when dealing cards--and the money-lender, by a slight effort of memory, knew every hand that was out. Lablache was cheating.
To say that ”Lord” Bill was astonished would be wrong. He was not. He had long suspected it. The steady run of luck which Lablache had persisted in was too phenomenal. It was enough to set the densest thinking. Now everything was plain. Standing where he was, Bill had almost been able to read the index numerals himself. He gave no sign of his discovery. Apparently the matter was of no consequence to him, for he merely lit a fresh cigarette and walked towards the door. He turned as he was about to pa.s.s out.
”What time shall I tell Jacky to expect you home, John?” he said quietly, addressing the old rancher.
Lablache looked up with a swift, malevolent glance, but he said nothing.
Old John turned a drawn face to the speaker.
”Supper, I guess,” he said in a thick voice, husky from long silence.
”And tell Smith to send me in a bottle of 'white seal' and some gla.s.ses.”
”Right you are.” Then ”Lord” Bill pa.s.sed out. ”Poker without whisky is bad,” he muttered as he made his way back to the bar, ”but poker and whisky together can only be the beginning of the end. We'll see. Poor old John!”
CHAPTER VII
ACROSS THE GREAT MUSKEG