"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."

Beaucaire again wet his lips, staring at the uncovered cards in his
hands. He could not lose; with what he held no combination was
possible which could beat him. Yet, in spite of this knowledge, the
cold, sneering confidence of Kirby, brought with it a strange fear.
The man was a professional gambler. What gave him such recklessness?
Why should he be so eager to risk such a sum on an inferior hand?
McAfee, sitting next him, leaned over, managed to gain swift glimpse at
what he held, and eagerly whispered to him a word of encouragement.
The Judge straightened up in his chair, grasped a filled glass some one
had placed at his elbow, and gulped down the contents. The whispered
words, coupled with the fiery liquor, gave him fresh courage.

"By God, Kirby! I'll do it!" he blurted out. "You can't bluff me on
the hand I've got. Give me a sheet of paper, somebody--yes, that will
do."