lowed- a gold piece so lustfully; they counted each pot as they stacked it, and were contentious about trifles.
The Colonel's luck continued, it improved, got versatile, and his stack grew taller. Now and again he changed a bank note for some less fortunate player. "Chips have no home, gentleman," he observed as he tucked the note under his stack.
Although the cards were running his way the Southerner did not quite enjoy the game. It was not his kind of game. He felt an undercurrent of hostility—vague as a chilling draft that creeps from nowhere. Once he had almost risen to quit when in a big pot he drew one card, and caught the fourth seven, beating Castelleone's pat flush. The Italian wrangled until Reifenstein laughed. Then Castelleone kept mumbling to himself about "American Luck."
Being more than a thousand dollars winner, Colonel Spottiswoode hated to jump the game. He passed off Castelleone's ill-temper, and played carelessly; it was his own carelessness that caused the final break. Every one remembered how the play came up.
Shields was dealing; he and the Colonel kept bantering each other about the story of a man who always drew one card. The Cap, being on Shields' right, had cut the deck and handed them
