By midnight he was hoarse with repeating, parrot-wise, "That's good--give me another stack." His persistent losses won him sympathy, even from these hardened plungers.
"Bad luck, old man--sure!" purred the consolatory Stockman, raking the pot.

"I drawed out on you.

Sometimes the cards run against a fellow a long time, that way, and then turn right around and get worse." "Don't you worry about me," retorted Steve.

"You're liable to go home talking to yourself, yet, if the cards break even." In the early stages of the game Steve had been nervous and restless from the fever in his blood.

Now he was smiling, easy, serene, his mind working smoothly, like a well-oiled machine.