The Plastic Age - Percy Marks (i have read the book .TXT) 📗

occasionally, and received his daily liquor from Vinton. He no longer protested when Vinton offered him a drink; he accepted it as a matter of course, and he had almost completely forgotten that “smoking wasn’t good for a runner.” He had just about decided that he wasn’t a runner, anyway.

One evening in early spring he met George Winsor as he was crossing the campus.

“Hello, George. Where are you going?”

“Over to Ted Allen’s room. Big poker party tonight. Don’t you want to sit in?”

“You told me last week that you had sworn off poker. How come you’re playing again so soon?” Hugh strolled lazily along with Winsor.

“Not poker, Hugh⁠—craps. I’ve sworn off craps for good, and maybe I’ll swear off poker after tonight. I’m nearly a hundred berries to the good right now, and I can afford to play if I want to.”

“I’m a little ahead myself,” said Hugh. “I don’t play very often, though, except in the house when the fellows insist. I can’t shoot craps at all, and I get tired of cards after a couple of hours.”

“I’m a damn fool to play,” Winsor asserted positively, “a plain damn fool, I oughtn’t to waste my time at it, but I’m a regular fiend for the game. I get a great kick out of it. How’s to sit in with us? There’s only going to be half a dozen fellows. Two-bit limit.”

“Yeah, it’ll start with a two-bit limit, but after an hour deuces’ll be wild all over the place and the sky will be the limit. I’ve sat in those games before.”

Winsor laughed. “Guess you’re right, but what’s the odds? Better shoot a few hands.”

“Well, all-right, but I can’t stay later than eleven. I’ve got a quiz in eccy tomorrow, and I’ve got to bone up on it some time tonight.”

“I’ve got that quiz, too. I’ll leave with you at eleven.”

Winsor and Hugh entered the dormitory and climbed the stairs. Allen’s door was open, and several undergraduates were lolling around the room, smoking and chatting. They welcomed the newcomers with shouts of “Hi, Hugh,” and “Hi, George.”

Allen had a large round table in the center of his study, and the boys soon had it cleared for action. Allen tossed the cards upon the table, produced several ashtrays, and then carefully locked the door.

“Keep an ear open for Mac,” he admonished his friends; “He’s warned me twice now,” “Mac” was the night-watchman, and he had a way of dropping in unexpectedly on gambling parties. “Here are the chips. You count ’em out, George. Two-bit limit.”

The boys drew up chairs to the table, lighted cigarettes or pipes, and began the game. Hugh had been right; the “two-bit limit” was soon lifted, and Allen urged his guests to go as far as they liked.

There were ugly rumors about Allen around the campus. He was good looking, belonged to a fraternity in high standing, wore excellent clothes, and did fairly well in his studies; but the rumors persisted. There were students who insisted that he hadn’t the conscience of a snake, and a good many of them hinted that no honest man ever had such consistently good luck at cards and dice.

The other boys soon got heated and talkative, but Allen said little besides announcing his bids. His blue eyes remained coldly expressionless whether he won or lost the hand; his crisp, curly brown hair remained neatly combed and untouched by a nervous hand; his lips parted occasionally in a quiet smile: he was the perfect gambler, never excited, always in absolute control of himself.

Hugh marveled at the control as the evening wore on. He was excited, and, try as he would, he could not keep his excitement from showing. Luck, however, was with him; by ten o’clock he was seventy-five dollars ahead, and most of it was Allen’s money.

Hugh passed by three hands in succession, unwilling to take any chances. He had decided to “play close,” never betting unless he held something worth putting his money on.

Allen dealt the fourth hand. “Ante up,” he said quietly. The five other men followed his lead in tossing chips into the center of the table. He looked at his hand. “Two blue ones if you want to stay in.” Winsor and two of the men threw down their cards, but Hugh and a lad named Mandel each shoved two blue chips into the pot.

Hugh had three queens and an ace. “One card,” he said to Allen. Allen tossed him the card, and Hugh’s heart leaped when he saw that it was an ace.

“Two cards, Ted,” Mandel requested, nervously crushing his cigarette in an ashtray. He picked up the cards one at a time, lifting each slowly by one corner, and peeking at it as if he were afraid that a sudden full view would blast him to eternity. His face did not change expression as he added the cards to the three that he held in his hand.

“I’m sitting pretty,” Allen remarked casually, picking up the five cards that he had laid down before he dealt.

The betting began, Hugh nervous, openly excited, Mandel stonily calm, Allen completely at ease. At first the bets were for a dollar, but they gradually rose to five. Mandel threw down his cards.

“Fight it out,” he said morosely. “I’ve thrown away twenty-five bucks, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to throw away any more to see your four-flushes.”

Allen lifted a pile of chips and let them fall lightly, clicking a rapid staccato. “It’ll cost you ten dollars to see my hand, Hugh,” he said quietly.

“It’ll cost you twenty if you want to see mine,” Hugh responded, tossing the equivalent to thirty dollars into the pot. He watched Allen eagerly, but Allen’s face remained quite impassive as he raised Hugh another ten.

The four boys who weren’t playing leaned forward, pipes or cigarettes in their mouths, their stomachs pressed against the table, their eyes narrowed and excited. The air was a stench of stale smoke; the silence between bets was electric.

The betting