Give me one round of fixed ammunition, Arthur." "There's no use drawing," observed another man, laying down his hand, "Berkley cleans us up _as_ usual." He was right; everything went to Berkley, as usual, who laughed and turned a dissipated face to Casson.
"Cold decks ?" he suggested politely.

"Your revenge at your convenience, Jack." Casson declined.

Cortlandt, in his brilliant zouave uniform, stood up and stretched his arms until the scarlet chevrons on the blue sleeves wrinkled into jagged lightning.
"It's been very kind of you all to come to my last 'good-bye party,'" he yawned, looking sleepily around him through the smoke at his belongings.
For a week he had been giving a "good-bye party" every evening in his handsome house on Twenty-third Street.

The four men and the three young girls in the other room were the residue of this party, which was to be the last.
Arthur Wye, wearing the brand-new uniform, red stripes and facings, of flying artillery, rose also; John Casson buttoned his cavalry jacket, grumbling, and stood heavily erect, a colossus in blue and yellow.
"You have the devil's luck, Berkley," he said without bitterness.
"I need it." "So you do, poor old boy.

But--God! you play like a professional." Wye yawned, thrust his strong, thin hands into his trousers pockets, and looked stupidly at the ceiling.
"I wish to heaven they'd start our battery," he said vacantly.
"I'm that sick of Hamilton!" Casson grumbled again, settling his debts with Berkley.
"Everybody has the devil's own luck except the poor God-forsaken cavalry.