“Are you drunk, Irwin?” whispered the young Lieutenant Temple into the Captain’s ear, from the other side. But he only glanced round with a furious look.     

       “Not more than you. Leave me alone, if you please.”      

       “Twenty-one thousand,” came the calm response from the other side of the table.     

       A short, awkward pause followed. Captain Irwin nervously gnawed his small dark moustache. Then he raised his slim figure and called out—     

       “Fifty thousand!”      

       Once more the Major considered it his duty to endeavour to stop the game.     

       “I object,” he said. “It has been always a rule that the pool cannot be raised by more than a thousand rupees at a time. This limit has long since been passed.”      

       A rude, hoarse laugh escaped Irwin’s lips.     

       “It appears you want to save me, Major. But I am not in need of any saviour. If I lose I pay, and I don’t understand why the gentlemen are so       concerned on my behalf.”      

       The Major, who at last saw that all his good endeavours were misplaced, shrugged his shoulders. Lieutenant Temple, however, thought he had a good idea, and with an apparently unintentional, though violent, movement pushed against the light camp-table, and sent ashtrays, bottles, glasses, and cards flying on the ground. But he did not gain anything by this, for the two players held their cards firmly in their hands, and did not allow this contretemps to disturb their sangfroid for a single moment.     

       “Fifty-one,” said McGregor.     

       “Sixty.”      

       “Sixty-one.”      

       “Seventy.”      

       “Seventy-one.”      

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