It had interest for him. The winning or
losing of money was not of great moment. Poker was not all chance or
luck, such as the roll of a ball, the turn of a card, or the facing
up of dice. Presently he became one of an interested group round a
table watching four men play poker.
One, a gambler in black, immaculate in contrast to his companions,
had a white, hard, expressionless face, with eyes of steel and thin
lips. His hands were wonderful. Probably they never saw the
sunlight, certainly no labor. They were as swift as light, too swift
for the glance of an eye. But when he dealt the cards he was slow,
careful, deliberate. The stakes were gold, and the largest heap lay
in front of him. One of his opponents was a giant of a fellow,
young, with hulking shoulders, heated face, and broken nose--a
desperado if Neale ever saw one. The other two players called this
strapping brute Fresno. The little man with a sallow face like a
wolf was evidently too intent on the game to look up. He appeared to
be losing. Beside his small pile of gold stood an empty tumbler. The
other and last player was a huge, bull-necked man whom Neale had
seen before. It was difficult to place him, but after studying the
red cheeks and heavy, drooping mustache, and hearing the loud voice,
he recognized him as a boss of graders--a head boss.
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