the two rested a stack of gold coin, a roll of crushed bills, and a legal paper of some kind, the exact nature of which I could not determine.  I leaned forward, but could only perceive that it bore the official stamp of some recording office—­a deed, perhaps, to some of the remaining acres of Beaucaire.  It was evident that a fortune already rested on that table, awaiting the flip of a card.  The silence, the breathless attention, convinced me that the crisis had been reached—­it was the Judge’s move; he must cover the last bet, or throw down his hand a loser.

Perspiration beaded his forehead, and he crunched the cards savagely in his hands.  His glance swept past the crowd, as though he saw nothing of their faces.

“Another drink, Sam,” he called, the voice trembling.  He tossed down the glass of liquor as though it were so much water, but made no other effort to speak.  You could hear the strained breathing of the men.

“Well,” said Kirby sneeringly, his cold gaze surveying his motionless opponent.  “You seem to be taking your time.  Do you cover my bet?”

Someone laughed nervously, and a voice sang out over my shoulder, “You might as well go the whole hog, Judge.  The niggers won’t be no good without the land ter work ’em on.  Fling ’em into the pot—–­they’re as good as money.”

Beaucaire looked up, red-eyed, into the impassive countenance opposite.  His lips twitched, yet managed to make words issue between them.

“How about that, Kirby?” he asked hoarsely.  “Will you accept a bill of sale?”

Kirby grinned, shuffling his hand carelessly.

“Why not? ’twon’t be the first time I’ve played for niggers.  They are worth so much gold down the river.  What have you got?”

“I can’t tell that offhand,” sullenly.  “About twenty field hands.”

“And house servants?”

“Three or four.”

The gambler’s lips set more tightly, a dull gleam creeping into his eyes.

“See here, Beaucaire,” he hissed sharply.  “This is my game and I play square and never squeal.  I know about what you’ve got, for I’ve looked them over; thought we might get down to this sometime.  I can make a pretty fair guess as to what your niggers are worth.  That’s why I just raised you ten thousand, and put up the money.  Now, if you think this is a bluff, call me.”

“What do you mean?”

“That I will accept your niggers as covering my bet.”

“The field hands?”

Kirby smiled broadly.

“The whole bunch—­field hands and house servants.  Most of them are old; I doubt if all together they will bring that amount, but I’ll take the risk.  Throw in a blanket bill of sale, and we’ll turn up our cards.  If you won’t do that, the pile is mine as it stands.”