Kathy, standing behind Carl, asked: "Anything else I can do for you?"
"No, thank you," answered Carl. He smiled at her over his shoulder. "I think we have everything."
She gestured towards the loaded side-table. "Drinks," she indicated. "Ice—soda-water—cigarettes. . . . And there's lots of coffee left. I ordered sandwiches for eleven o'clock. Barkway's off now, but there's a night-steward."
"Thank you, my dear girl."
"I'll say good night, then."
"How are you going to spend your evening?" asked Tillotson politely.
"Oh, I'll look at the view, and then go to bed. We're passing St. Lucia some time during the night, but I expect I'll be asleep." She nodded to each of them in turn, and as they half-rose, she bent and kissed Carl. "Good night," she said. "And good luck, if I'm allowed to say that." Then she turned, and was gone.
"A beautiful girl, that," said Tillotson, on the correct note of diffidence.
"Very like her mother," said Carl. He sighed; with practice, it was not difficult to do so. "She has been a very great comfort to me."
Tillotson took the cards from Carl, and spread them fan-wise on the table, with an expert flick of the back of his hand. "Draw for it," he said, his voice already changing to a curt, controlled competence. "Ace high, high deals."
It was one o'clock and then two; while the Alcestis threshed on through the calm night, and the ship's interior noise receded all round them, their game continued. But as usual, with the passing hours its outlines had become blurred. The men who talked were talking more, the ones who drank had drunk too much; the heavy losers had relapsed into their customary depressed silence. Carl was a small winner again, and Tillotson a large one; Beddington, that silent, cautious man, was about even, and Burrell a little down. Hartmann, the irrepressible, had eight hundred dollars against him on the books, and Greenfield, who had held terrible cards all evening, and had drunk too much anyway, was nearly two thousand behind. It was very much like the pattern of many other games; the true players came to the top, the amateurs stayed in the ruck, and those without the gift of concentration sank inevitably into the mud.
At half past two, Carl looked at his watch. "Gentlemen," he said, "speaking as a winner, and also as the host, I suggest we have the last rounds fairly soon."
"Suits me," said Burrell. He had had a nervous evening, with one good run and one bad one; he didn't expect to win now, he was ready to cut his small losses and call it a day.
Tillotson nodded, without saying anything. Part of the pleasure of playing with him was his unfailing good manners. As the big winner, he could not appear eager to quit; but half past two was late, past their usual break-up time.
Greenfield was at the side-table, helping himself to another whisky and soda. "Might as well be drunk as be the way I am," he said slurringly. "Make it last rounds if you like. They'll have to be damn' good to pull me out."
Hartmann said: "O.K. by me," and Beddington, lighting his pipe, grunted vaguely.
"All right," said Carl. "One round of dealer's choice, and one jackpot."
When the deal came to him, he looked round the table again. "What's it to be?"
As usual, when invited, they all named their favourites.
"Straight draw poker," said Tillotson.
"Aces wild."
"Seven-card stud."
"Misere."
"High-low."
Carl laughed. He was relaxed now; the game was nearly over, it had gone well enough for him, nothing much could happen at this stage.
"Thanks for the help," he said. He looked up at Greenfield, still the main casualty. "You choose," he said. "I think you've earned it."
"Jackpot," answered Greenfield. He had won a big pot, three or four hours ago; he wanted a return to that golden age.
"But we're going to have one in a minute, anyway," objected Hartmann.
"I'd like one now," said Greenfield obstinately.
"Jackpot," said Carl, and began to deal.
No one opened the first time, nor the second, nor the third; the pot, "sweetened" every time with ten dollars from each of them, was worth over two hundred by the time it came to the fourth deal. But on that round, Carl found that he had given himself a pair of aces and a pair of eights—good enough to open with, by a long way. He was, however, forestalled.
"It's loose," said Hartmann, who was sitting on his left, promptly. "For half the pot—say, a hundred and twenty dollars."
There was the usual silence. After a moment, the next player, Burrell, said, "Too expensive," and threw his hand in. Then Greenfield, squinting at his cards, said: "I'll come to that party," and began somewhat uncertainly to count out one hundred and twenty dollars.
It was Tillotson's turn. He would not join in unless he had something worth while, thought Carl; he might be a couple of thousand ahead, but he would never throw any of it away, neither early nor late in the game.
Tillotson said: "Double."
Two hundred and forty dollars, thought Carl, to win a pool worth about the same amount. Tillotson must be good, he must be certain he was better than Hartmann the opener. Two pairs, maybe. Even threes.
Beddington, the fifth player, shook his head mournfully. "Not at those fancy prices," he said, and tossed his cards into the centre.
That left Carl himself. His two pairs, ace high, were good, probably better than Hartmann's hand. Greenfield might have anything; he was fiddling with his cards, rearranging them; it usually meant that he had a broken hand—four to a straight, four to a flush. Tillotson's call was confident. But it might be a bluff to knock out Hartmann, who, as a biggish loser, was inclined to run scared at such times.
"Two hundred and forty dollars," agreed Carl, and pushed the chips forward.
"You can't frighten the opener," said Hartmann. "Two hundred and forty it is."
Out of the blue, almost sulkily, Greenfield said: "Double again."
Tillotson looked at him quickly, as did Carl. The call, of course, was nonsensical; if his hand was as good as that, Greenfield should have doubled on the first time round. But he was drunk, they all knew; he might have mistaken his hand at the first glance, and then, at a closer look, found he had something better. He was not likely to be bluffing; he never bluffed unless he was well ahead of the game. Carl placed him with two very good pairs, or else a pat hand. A straight.
Tillotson's thinking had obviously been on the same lines, but he was still confident. "Expensive," he murmured. "But not too expensive. I'm in for four-eighty."
It was Carl's turn again. It was indeed an expensive hand to join in; his two pairs, ace high, seemed to have shrunk in stature since he first sighted them. With Tillotson in, at such a big price, it meant that there would be serious competition. But two aces and two eights had a ring of gold about them. ... He nodded. "All right. In."
Hartmann was now having serious second thoughts. He was frowning, looking from one player to another. Then he began to tap his cards on the table, irritably. It was a sure sign, Carl knew, that he was going to fold.
"I'll show my openers," said Hartmann after a moment. "This is too rich for my blood."
Carl said: "Three players in, for four hundred and eighty dollars." And then, to Greenfield: "Cards?"
"I'll play these," said Greenfield.
A pat hand, thought Carl again; not a bluff—he wasn't that kind of a player, and particularly not at three o'clock in the morning. A flush or a straight, which had at last swum into his uncertain ken. . . . His eyes went round in turn to Tillotson, sitting opposite him.