“I say it’s a head,” Lionel replied.

“You’ve made a mistake, then—­very sorry,” said the other, as he raked in his own money.

“I owe you twenty-eight pounds, Johnny,” Lionel said, without more ado; and he took out his note-book and jotted it down.  Then they went on again.

Now the game of poker is played in calm; happy is he who can preserve a perfectly expressionless face through all its vicissitudes.  But the game of whiskey-poker (which is no game) is played amid vacuous excitement and strong language and derisive laughter—­especially towards four in the morning.  The whole of this little party seemed ready to go; in fact, they had all risen and were standing round the table; but nevertheless they remained, while successive hands were dealt, face upwards.  At first only a sovereign each was staked, then two, then three, then four, then five—­and there a line was drawn.  But in staking five sovereigns every time, with four to one against you, a considerable amount of money can be lost; and Lionel had been in ill-luck all the sitting.  He did not, however, seem to mind his losses, so long as the fierce spirit of gambling could be kept up; and it was with no desperate effort at recovering his money that he was always for increasing the stakes.  He would have sat down at the table and gone on indefinitely with this frantic plunging, but that his companions declared they must go directly; at last three of them solemnly swore they would have only one round more.  There were then left in only Lionel and the young fellow who had won his L28 early in the evening.

“Johnny, I’ll go you once for twenty pounds,” Lionel said.

“Done with you.”

“I say, you fellows,” protested one of the bystanders, “you’ll smash up this club—­you’ll have the police shutting it up as a gambling-hell.  Besides, you’re breaking the rules; you’ll have the committee expelling you.”

“What rules?” Lionel’s opponent asked, wheeling round.

“The amount of the stakes, for one thing; and playing after three o’clock, for another,” was the answer.

“I’ll bet you ten pounds there’s no limit as to time in the rules of this club—­I mean as regards card-playing,” the young man said, boldly.

“I take you.”

The bell was rung; a waiter was sent to fetch a List of Members; and then he who had accepted the bet read out these solemn words: 

“Rule XIX.  No higher stakes than guinea points shall ever be played for, nor shall any card or billiard playing be permitted in the club after 3 A.M.”

“There’s your confounded money; what a fool of a club to let you stay here all night if you like, and to stop card-playing at three!” He turned to Lionel.  “Well, Moore, what did you say:  twenty pounds?  I’ll just make it thirty, if you like, and see if I can’t get back that ten.”

“Right with you, Johnny.”

The young man dealt the two hands:  he found he had a pair of fours, Lionel nothing but a king.  The winner took over the loser’s I.O.U. for the L30, and then said,