raised Cleaver, but only for a small amount; and Cleaver again raised Vance—this time for an even larger sum than before. Vance hesitated, and called him. Cleaver exposed his hand triumphantly.
“Straight flush—jack high,” he announced. “Can you beat that?”
“Not on a two-card draw,” said Vance ruefully. He put his cards down to show his openers. He had four kings.
About half an hour later Vance again took out his handkerchief and passed it across his forehead. As before, I noted that it was Allen’s deal, and also that the hand was a jack-pot which had been twice sweetened. Allen paused to take a drink of his high-ball and to light his cigar. Then, after Vance had cut the cards, he dealt them.
Cleaver, Markham, and Spotswoode passed, and again Vance opened, for the full amount of the pot. No one stayed except Spotswoode; and this time it was a struggle solely between him and Vance. Spotswoode asked for one card; and Vance stood pat. Then there followed a moment of almost breathless silence. The atmosphere seemed to me to be electrically charged, and I think the others sensed it too, for they were watching the play with a curiously strained intentness. Vance and Spotswoode, however, appeared frozen in attitudes of superlative calm. I watched them closely, but neither revealed the slightest indication of any emotion.
It was Vance’s first bet. Without speaking he moved a stack of yellow chips to the centre of the table—it was by far the largest wager that had been made during the game. But immediately Spotswoode measured another stack alongside of it. Then he coolly and deftly counted the remainder of his chips, and pushed them all forward with the palm of his hand, saying quietly:
“The limit.”
Vance shrugged almost imperceptibly.
“The pot, sir, is yours.” He smiled pleasantly at Spotswoode, and put down his hand face up, to establish his openers. He had held four aces!
“Gad! That’s poker!” exclaimed Allen, chuckling.
“Poker?” echoed Markham. “To lay down four aces with all that money at stake?”
Cleaver also grunted his astonishment, and Mannix pursed his lips disgustedly.
“I don’t mean any offense, y’ understand, Mr. Vance,” he said. “But looking at that play from a strictly business standpoint, I’d say you quit too soon.”
Spotswoode glanced up.
“You gentlemen wrong Mr. Vance,” he said. “He played his hand perfectly. His withdrawal, even with four aces, was scientifically correct.”
“Sure it was,” agreed Allen. “Oh, boy! What a battle that was!”
Spotswoode nodded and, turning to Vance, said:
“Since the exact situation is never likely to occur again, the least I can do, by way of showing my appreciation of your remarkable perception, is to gratify your curiosity.—I held nothing.”
Spotswoode put down his hand and extended his fingers gracefully toward the upturned cards. There were revealed a five, six, seven, and eight of clubs, and a knave of hearts.
“I can’t say that I follow your reasoning, Mr. Spotswoode,” Markham confessed. “Mr. Vance had you beaten—and he quit.”
“Consider the situation,” Spotswoode replied, in a suave, even voice. “I most certainly would have opened so rich a pot, had I been able to, after Mr. Cleaver and you had passed. But since I nevertheless stayed after Mr. Vance had opened for so large an amount, it goes without saying that I must have had either a four-straight, a four-flush, or a four-straight-flush. I believe I may state without immodesty that I am too good a player to have stayed otherwise. . . .”
“And I assure you, Markham,” interrupted Vance, “that Mr. Spotswoode is too good a player to have stayed unless he had actually had a four-straight-flush. That is the only hand he would have been justified in backing at the betting odds of two to one.—You see, I had opened for the amount in the pot, and Mr. Spotswoode had to put up half the amount of the money on the table in order to stay—making it a two-to-one bet.—Now, these odds are not high, and any non-opening hand smaller than a four-straight-flush would not have warranted the risk. As it was, he had, with a one-card draw, two chances in forty-seven of making a straight-flush, nine chances in forty-seven of making a flush, and eight chances in forty-seven of making a straight; so that he had nineteen chances in forty-seven—or more than one chance in three—of strengthening his hand into either a straight-flush, a flush, or a straight.”
“Exactly,” assented Spotswoode. “However, after I had drawn my one card, the only possible question in Mr. Vance’s mind was whether or not I had made my straight-flush. If I had not made it—or had merely drawn a straight or a flush—Mr. Vance figured, and figured rightly, that I would not have seen his large bet and also have raised it the limit. To have done so, in those circumstances, would have been irrational poker. Not one player in a thousand would have taken such a risk on a mere bluff. Therefore, had Mr. Vance not laid down his four aces when I raised him, he would have been fool-hardy in the extreme. It turned out, of course, that I was actually bluffing; but that does not alter the fact that the correct and logical thing was for Mr. Vance to quit.”
“Quite true,” Vance agreed. “As Mr. Spotswoode says, not one player in a thousand would have wagered the limit without having filled his straight-flush, knowing I had a pat hand. Indeed, one might almost say that Mr. Spotswoode, by doing so, has added another decimal point to the psychological subtleties of the game; for, as you see, he analyzed my reasoning, and carried his own reasoning a step further.”
Spotswoode acknowledged the compliment with a slight bow; and Cleaver reached for the cards and began to shuffle them. But the tension had been broken, and the game was not resumed.
Something, however, seemed to have gone wrong with Vance. For a long while he sat frowning at his cigarette and sipping his high-ball in troubled abstraction. At last he rose and walked to the mantel, where he stood studying a Cézanne water-color he had given Markham years before. His action was a typical indication of his inner puzzlement.
Presently, when there came a lull in the conversation, he turned sharply and looked at Mannix.
“I say, Mr. Mannix”—he spoke with only casual curiosity—“how does it happen you’ve never acquired a taste for poker? All good business men are gamblers at heart.”
“Sure they are,” Mannix replied, with pensive deliberation. “But poker, now, isn’t my idea of gambling—positively not. It’s got too much science. And it ain’t quick enough for me—it hasn’t got the kick in it, if you know what I mean. Roulette’s my speed. When I was in Monte Carlo last summer I dropped more money in ten minutes than you gentlemen lost here this whole evening. But I got action for my money.”
“I take it, then, you don’t care for cards at all.”
“Not to play games with.” Mannix had become expansive. “I don’t mind betting money on the draw of a card, for instance. But no two out of three, y’ understand. I want my pleasures to come rapid.” And he snapped his thick fingers several times in quick succession to demonstrate the rapidity with which he desired to have his pleasures come.
Vance sauntered to the table and carelessly picked up a deck of cards.
“What do you say to cutting once for a thousand dollars?”
Mannix
