Then he studied the possibilities of the game as it had been played, and began to figure how he might have won, in several instances, by bluffing a little harder.
"I'm old enough to play poker and do something with it.I'll try my hand to-night."
Visions of a big stake floated before him.Supposing he did win a couple of hundred, wouldn't he be in it? Lots of sports he knew made their living at this game, and a good living, too.
"They always had as much as I had," he thought.
So off he went to a poker room in the neighbourhood, feeling much as he had in the old days.In this period of self-forgetfulness, aroused first by the shock of argument and perfected by a dinner in the hotel, with cocktails and cigars, he was as nearly like the old Hurstwood as he would ever be again.It was not the old Hurstwood--only a man arguing with a divided conscience and lured by a phantom.
This poker room was much like the other one, only it was a back room in a better drinking resort.Hurstwood watched a while, and then, seeing an interesting game, joined in.As before, it went easy for a while, he winning a few times and cheering up, losing a few pots and growing more interested and determined on that account.At last the fascinating game took a strong hold on him.
He enjoyed its risks and ventured, on a trifling hand, to bluff the company and secure a fair stake.To his self-satisfaction intense and strong, he did it.
In the height of this feeling he began to think his luck was with him.No one else had done so well.Now came another moderate hand, and again he tried to open the jack-pot on it.There were others there who were almost reading his heart, so close was their observation.
"I have three of a kind," said one of the players to himself.
"I'll just stay with that fellow to the finish."
The result was that bidding began.
"I raise you ten."
"Good."
"Ten more."
"Good."
"Ten again."
"Right you are."
It got to where Hurstwood had seventy-five dollars up.The other man really became serious.Perhaps this individual (Hurstwood)
really did have a stiff hand.
"I call," he said.
Hurstwood showed his hand.He was done.The bitter fact that he had lost seventy-five dollars made him desperate.
"Let's have another pot," he said, grimly.
"All right," said the man.
Some of the other players quit, but observant loungers took their places.Time passed, and it came to twelve o'clock.Hurstwood held on, neither winning nor losing much.Then he grew weary, and on a last hand lost twenty more.He was sick at heart.
At a quarter after one in the morning he came out of the place.
The chill, bare streets seemed a mockery of his state.He walked slowly west, little thinking of his row with Carrie.He ascended the stairs and went into his room as if there had been no trouble.It was his loss that occupied his mind.Sitting down on the bedside he counted his money.There was now but a hundred and ninety dollars and some change.He put it up and began to undress.
"I wonder what's getting into me, anyhow?" he said.
In the morning Carrie scarcely spoke and he felt as if he must go out again.He had treated her badly, but he could not afford to make up.Now desperation seized him, and for a day or two, going out thus, he lived like a gentleman--or what he conceived to be a gentleman--which took money.For his escapades he was soon poorer in mind and body, to say nothing of his purse, which had lost thirty by the process.Then he came down to cold, bitter sense again.
"The rent man comes to-day," said Carrie, greeting him thus indifferently three mornings later.
"He does?"
"Yes; this is the second," answered Carrie.
Hurstwood frowned.Then in despair he got out his purse.
"It seems an awful lot to pay for rent," he said.
He was nearing his last hundred dollars.
