the officers, throwing him the cards. Soon other packs came out
of other pockets; and the doctor laying a little heap of paper and
silver on the table, the game began. The stakes were not high, and light
jests accompanied the loss and gain of the players. Even Anton took a
card and staked away without much thought. He found it difficult,
though, to take any cordial part in the entertainment, and looked with
sincere sympathy at young Rothsattel bending, in his ignorance, over the
cards. He himself won a few dollars, but remarked with pain that Eugene
was invariably unlucky. As, however, he was a party concerned in this,
he made no remark; but the doctor himself said to his patient, after
having again swept away the ducats the former had put down, "You are
getting hot; you are feverish; if you are prudent, you will play no
more. I have never yet had a fever-patient who did not lose at Pharao."

"That won't do, doctor," replied Eugene, sharply, and staked again.

"You are unlucky, Eugene," cried the good-humored Bolling. "You go on
too fast."

His deal over, the doctor took up the cards and placed them in his
pocket. "The bank has won immensely," said he; "but I leave off; I have
made enough."

Again a storm arose among the officers. "I will hold the bank," cried
Eugene; "give me your cash, Wohlfart."

The doctor protested, but at length gave in, thinking, "Perhaps he'll
have a run of luck as banker; one must not refuse a man a chance of
compensation."

Anton took some bank-notes out of his pocket, and laid them down before
Eugene, but he himself played no more. He sat there sadly, and looked at
his friend, who, heated by wine and fever, stared fixedly at the cards
of the players. Deal succeeded deal, and Eugene lost all he had before
him. The officers glanced at each other in amazement.

"I too propose that we leave off," said Bolling; "we will give you your
revenge another time."

"I will have it to-day," cried Eugene, springing up and shutting the
door. "Not one of you shall stir. Keep your places and play; here is
money." He threw a bundle of matches on the table. "Every match stands
for a dollar; no stake under. I will pay to-morrow." The game went on;
Eugene continued to lose; the matches were scattered in all directions,
as by some secret spell. Eugene got another bundle, exclaiming wildly,
"We'll reckon when we separate."

Bolling rose and stamped with his chair.

"Whoever leaves the room is a scoundrel