Leaning back with both elbows on the counter and the glass clutched in his right hand, he studied the men about him once more. Evaluating each of them as a source of distraction and then discarding and moving his attention on, he was finally left with the small group around the gaming-table.
Seven players, the game draw poker, and from what he could see the stakes were modest. He picked up his bottle, crossed the room to join the circle of spectators and took up his position behind a sergeant of yeomanry who was receiving a battering from the cards. A few hands later the sergeant drew one to fill his flush, missed and pushed the bluff – raising twice until he was called by two pairs across the table. He threw his hand in and blew through his lips in disgust.
‘That cleans me out.’ He gathered the few coins left on the table in front of him and stood up.
‘Rough luck, Jack. Anyone care to take his place?’ The winner looked around the circle of spectators. ‘Nice friendly little game, table stakes.’
‘Deal me in.’ Sean sat down, placed his glass and bottle strategically at his right hand and stacked five gold sovereigns in front of him.
‘The man’s got gold! Welcome.’
Sean ducked the first hand, lost two pounds to three queens on the next, and won five pounds on the third. The pattern of his luck was set, he played with cold single-mindedness – and when he wanted cards it seemed he had only to wish for them.
What was the old adage? – ‘Unlucky in love, and the cards turn hot.’ Sean grinned without amusement and filled a small straight with the five of hearts, beat down the three sevens that came against him and drew the pot towards him to swell the pile of his winnings. Up about thirty or forty pounds. He was enjoying himself now.
‘A small school, gentlemen.’ Three players had dropped out in the last hour leaving four of them at the table. ‘How about giving the losers a chance to recoup?’
‘You want to raise the stakes?’ Sean asked the speaker. He was the only other winner, a big man with a red face and the smell of horses about him. Transport rider, probably.
‘Yes, if everyone agrees. Make the minimum bet five pounds.’
‘Suits me,’ grunted Sean, and there was a murmur of agreement round the table. With heavy money out an air of caution prevailed at first, but slowly the game opened up. Sean’s luck cooled a little, but an hour later he had built up his kitty on a series of small wins to a total of seventy-five pounds. Then Sean dealt a strange hand.
The first caller on Sean’s left raised before the draw, and was raised in turn by the gentleman with the horsy smell, number three called and Sean fanned his cards open.
With a gentle elation he found the seven, eight, nine and ten of Clubs – with a Diamond six. A pretty little straight dealt pat.
‘Call your twenty, and raise it twenty,’ he offered, and there was a small stir of excitement among the onlookers.
‘Call.’ Number one was short of cash.
‘Call,’ echoed Horse Odour and his gold clinked into the pot.
‘I’m dropping.’ Number three closed his cards and pushed them away. Sean turned back to number one.
‘How many cards?’
‘I’ll play with these.’ Sean felt the first premonition of disaster.
‘And you?’ he asked Horse Odour.
‘I’m also happy with what I have.’
Two pat hands against his small straight; and from the suit distribution, Sean’s four Clubs, one of them would certainly be a flush. With a queasy feeling in his stomach Sean knew he was in trouble, knew his hand to be a loser.
Break the straight and go for the other Club, still not a certain winner, but the only thing worth trying.
‘I’ll draw one.’ He tossed the six of Diamonds into the welter of discards, and dealt to himself from the top of the pack.
‘My bet.’ Number one’s face was glowing with confidence. ‘I’ll raise the maximum – another forty. Cost you eighty pounds to look at me, boys. Let’s see the colour of your money.’
‘I’d like to push you – but that’s the limit. I’ll call.’ Hotse Odour’s expression was completely neutral but he was sweating in a light sheen across his forehead.
‘Let me go to the books.’ Sean picked up his cards and, from behind the other four, pressed out the corner of the card he had drawn. It was black, he opened it a little more – a black six. Slowly he felt the pressure build up within him like a freshly fired boiler. He drew a long breath and opened the card fully.
‘I’ll call also.’ He spoke on a gusty outgoing breath.
‘Full house,’ shouted number one. ‘Queen’s full – beat that, you bastards!’