The cards running to him, it was not long before Steve doubled his “come-in” several times on quite ordinary hands, largely because his capital was so small that he could not be bluffed out.  The betting was fierce and furious.  Steve, “on velvet,” played brilliantly.  But he was in fast company—­too fast for his modest means.  The Transient seemed to have a bottomless purse.  The Stockman had cattle on a thousand hills, the Merchant habitually sold goods at cost.

As for the Judge—­his fine Italian hand was distinctly traceable in the frenzied replies to frenzied attacks upon certain frenzied financial transactions of his chief, a frenzied but by no means verdant copper magnate, to whom he, the Judge, was Procureur-General, adviser legal and otherwise.  The Judge took no thought for the morrow, unless his frequently expressed resolve not to go home till that date may be so regarded.

The Eminent Person, a Republican for Revenue Only, had been awarded a remunerative Federal position as a tribute to his ambidextrous versatility in the life strenuous, and his known prowess as a “Stand-Patter.”

Upon all these things Steve reflected.  With caution, some caution, and again caution, a goodly sum might well be abstracted from these reckless and capricious persons; provided always that he had money on the table to play a good hand for what it was worth.

For long his luck held good.  Having increased his gains manyfold, he was (being quite a natural person) naturally incensed that they were not more.  Yielding to his half-formed resolve, he dug up his herd of cattle and put them on the table.  “I am now prepared to grab old Opportunity by the scalp-lock,” he announced.

He played on with varying success.  Presently, holding aces up, and being persistently crosslifted by the Eminent One and the Judge, after a one-card draw all around, he became obsessed with the fixed idea that they were both bluffing and afraid to show down.  When this delusion was dispelled, he noted with chagrin that the spoils of Egypt had departed, taking with them some plenty of real money.

That was the turning-point.  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.  Collecting all his forces, counting the chances coolly, he played a steady, consistent game.