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 pile of assorted reds and blues with a twenty-dollar bill.

Hollingsworth yawned as the first cards were dealt. Between him and Sprague a bottle of champagne rested in a silver-plated cooler on the floor.

Again and again was Hart astonished at his own sensations; he wondered at his coolness as he played his hands. No old gambler could have been more imperturbable.

Danforth was regarding him with admiration, Sprague was muttering in thick accents beneath his breath, and Hollingworth's head would occasionally pitch forward on his chest, a motion which would be followed by a defiant glare around the table.

Such luck could scarcely be imagined as that in which Hart played. It required little skill for him to win. But all at once fortune showed her fickleness and the tide turned toward Danforth. Slowly the pile of ivory counters diminished and as the excitement of winning left him, a weariness came over Hart's eyes. Suddenly he realized that there was nothing more for him to play with; that Danforth had apparently swept the cloth. With a curse Sprague