"That's my business," he said tersely. "Sign it, McAfee, and I'll call
this crowing cockerel. You young fool, I played poker before you were
born. There now, Kirby, I've covered your bet."

"Perhaps you would prefer to raise it?"

"You hell-hound--no! That is my limit, and you know it. Don't crawl
now, or do any more bluffing. Show your hand--I've called you."

Kirby sat absolutely motionless, his cards lying face down upon the
table, the white fingers of one hand resting lightly upon them, the
other arm concealed. He never once removed his gaze from Beaucaire's
face, and his expression did not change, except for the almost
insulting sneer on his lips. The silence was profound, the deeply
interested men leaning forward, even holding their breath in intense
eagerness. Each realized that a fortune lay on the table; knew that
the old Judge had madly staked his all on the value of those five
unseen cards gripped in his fingers. Again, as though to bolster up
his shaken courage, he stared at the face of each, then lifted his
blood-shot eyes to the impassive face opposite.

"Beaucaire drew two kayards," whispered an excited voice near me.

"Hell! so did Kirby." replied another. "They're both of 'em old hands."

The sharp exhaust of a distant steam pipe below punctuated the silence,
and several glanced about apprehensively. As this noise ceased
Beaucaire lost all control over his nerves.