It is but fair to say that this thought had occurred to him several times before he acted upon it.
The poker room which he first invaded was over a saloon in West Street, near one of the ferries.
He had been there before.
Several games were going. These he watched for a time and noticed that the pots were quite large for the ante involved.
“Deal me a hand,” he said at the beginning of a new shuffle.
He pulled up a chair and studied his cards.
Those playing made that quiet study of him which is so unapparent, and yet invariably so searching.
Poor fortune was with him at first.
He received a mixed collection without progression or pairs.
The pot was opened.
“I pass,” he said.
On the strength of this, he was content to lose his ante.
The deals did fairly by him in the long run, causing him to come away with a few dollars to the good.
The next afternoon he was back again, seeking amusement and profit.
This time he followed up three of a kind to his doom.
There was a better hand across the table, held by a pugnacious Irish youth, who was a political hanger-on of the Tammany district in which they were located.
Hurstwood was surprised at the persistence of this individual, whose bets came with a sang-froid which, if a bluff, was excellent art.
Hurstwood began to doubt, but kept, or thought to keep, at least, the cool demeanour with which, in olden times, he deceived those psychic students of the gaming table, who seem to read thoughts and moods, rather than exterior evidences, however subtle.
He could not down the cowardly thought that this man had something better and would stay to the end, drawing his last dollar into the pot, should he choose to go so far.
Still, he hoped to win much — his hand was excellent.
Why not raise it five more?
“I raise you three,” said the youth.
“Make it five,” said Hurstwood, pushing out his chips.
“Come again,” said the youth, pushing out a small pile of reds.
“Let me have some more chips,” said Hurstwood to the keeper in charge, taking out a bill.
A cynical grin lit up the face of his youthful opponent. When the chips were laid out, Hurstwood met the raise.
“Five again,” said the youth.
Hurstwood’s brow was wet.
He was deep in now — very deep for him.
Sixty dollars of his good money was up.
He was ordinarily no coward, but the thought of losing so much weakened him.
Finally he gave way.
He would not trust to this fine hand any longer.
“I call,” he said.
“A full house!” said the youth, spreading out his cards.
Hurstwood’s hand dropped.
“I thought I had you,” he said, weakly.
The youth raked in his chips, and Hurstwood came away, not without first stopping to count his remaining cash on the stair.
“Three hundred and forty dollars,” he said.
With this loss and ordinary expenses, so much had already gone.
Back in the flat, he decided he would play no more.
Remembering Mrs. Vance’s promise to call, Carrie made one other mild protest.
It was concerning Hurstwood’s appearance.
This very day, coming home, he changed his clothes to the old togs he sat around in.
“What makes you always put on those old clothes?” asked Carrie.
“What’s the use wearing my good ones around here?” he asked.
“Well, I should think you’d feel better.”
Then she added: “Some one might call.”
“Who?” he said.
“Well, Mrs. Vance,” said Carrie.