my 'ook an' keep slingin' it."

I had brought the customary liquor glasses, but Wolf Larsen
frowned, shook his head, and signalled with his hands for me to
bring the tumblers. These he filled two-thirds full with undiluted
whisky--"a gentleman's drink?" quoth Thomas Mugridge,--and they
clinked their glasses to the glorious game of "Nap," lighted
cigars, and fell to shuffling and dealing the cards.

They played for money. They increased the amounts of the bets.
They drank whisky, they drank it neat, and I fetched more. I do
not know whether Wolf Larsen cheated or not,--a thing he was
thoroughly capable of doing,--but he won steadily. The cook made
repeated journeys to his bunk for money. Each time he performed
the journey with greater swagger, but he never brought more than a
few dollars at a time. He grew maudlin, familiar, could hardly see
the cards or sit upright. As a preliminary to another journey to
his bunk, he hooked Wolf Larsen's buttonhole with a greasy
forefinger and vacuously proclaimed and reiterated, "I got money, I
got money, I tell yer, an' I'm a gentleman's son."

Wolf Larsen was unaffected by the drink, yet he drank glass for
glass, and if anything his glasses were fuller. There was no
change in him. He did not appear even amused at the other's
antics.

In the end, with loud protestations that he could lose like a
gentleman, the cook's last money was staked on the game--and lost.
Whereupon he leaned his head on his hands and wept. Wolf Larsen
looked curiously at him, as though about to probe and vivisect him,