Lionel had been pretty fortunate, considering his wild style of play; but then his very recklessness stood him in good stead when he chanced to have a fair hand—­his reputation for bluffing leading on his opponents.  And then an extraordinary bit of luck had befallen him.  On this occasion the first hand dealt him contained three queens, a seven, and a five.  To make the other players imagine he had either two pairs or was drawing to a flush, he threw away only one of the two useless cards—­the five, as it chanced; but his satisfaction (which he bravely endeavored to conceal) may be imagined when he found that the single card dealt him in its place was a seven—­he therefore had a full hand!  When it came to his turn, instead of beginning cautiously, as an ordinary player would have done, he boldly raised the bet ten shillings.  But that frightened nobody.  His game was known; they imagined he had either two pairs or had failed to fill his flush and was merely bluffing.  When, however, there was another raise of ten shillings from the opposite side of the table, that was a very different matter; one by one the others dropped out, leaving these two in.  And then it went on: 

“Well, I’ll just see your ten shillings and raise you another ten.”

“And another ten.”

“And another ten.”

“And another ten.”

Of course, universal attention was now concentrated on this duel.  Probably four out of five of the players were of opinion that Lionel Moore was bluffing; that, at least, was certainly the opinion of his antagonist, who kept raising and raising without a qualm.  At length both of them had to borrow money to go on with; but still the duel continued, and still the pile of gold and chips in the middle of the table grew and increased.

“And another ten.”

“And another ten.”

Not a word of encouragement or dissuasion was uttered by any one of the onlookers; they sat silent and amused, wondering which of the two was about to be smitten under the fifth rib.  And at last it was Lionel’s opponent who gave in.

“On this occasion,” said he, depositing his half-sovereign, “I will simply gaze; what have you got?”

“Well, I have got a full hand,” Lionel answered, putting down his hand on the table.

“That is good enough,” the other said, stolidly.  “Take away the money.”

After this dire combat, the game fell flat a little; but interest was soon revived by a round of Jack-pots; and here again Lionel was in good luck.  Indeed, when the players rose from the table about three o’clock, he might have come away a winner of close on L40 had not some reckless person called out something about whiskey poker.  Now whiskey poker is the very stupidest form of gambling that the mind of man has ever conceived, though at the end of the evening some folk hunger after it as a kind of final fillip.  Each person puts down a certain sum—­it may be a sovereign, it may be five sovereigns; poker hands