said Wingo, gently bestowing his chips in the middle of the
table.

The Treasurer called.

The member from Silver City showed down five high hearts, and a light
rustle went over the Legislature when the Treasurer displayed three twos
and a pair of threes, and gathered in his harvest. He had drawn two
cards, Wingo one; and losing to the lowest hand that could have beaten
you is under such circumstances truly hard luck. Moreover, it was almost
the only sort of luck that had attended Wingo since about half after
three that morning. Seven hours of cards just a little lower than your
neighbor's is searching to the nerves.

"Gove'nuh, I'll take a hun'red mo'," said Wingo; and once again the
Legislature rustled lightly, and the new deal began.

Treasurer Hewley's winnings flanked his right, a pillared fortress on
the table, built chiefly of Wingo's misfortunes. Hewley had not counted
them, and his architecture was for neatness and not ostentation; yet the
Legislature watched him arrange his gains with sullen eyes. It would
have pleased him now to lose; it would have more than pleased him to be
able to go to bed quite a long time ago. But winners cannot easily go to
bed. The thoughtful Treasurer bet his money and deplored this luck. It
seemed likely to trap himself and the Governor in a predicament they had
not foreseen. All had taken a hand at first, and played for several
hours, until Fortune's wheel ran into a rut deeper than usual. Wingo
slowly became the loser to several, then Hewley had forged ahead, winner
from everybody. One by one they had dropped out, each meaning to go
home, and all lingering to see the luck turn. It was an extraordinary
run, a rare specimen, a breaker of records, something to refer to in the
future as a standard of measure and an embellishment of reminiscence;
quite enough to keep the Idaho Legislature up all night. And then it was
their friend who was losing. The only speaking in the room was the brief
card talk of the two players.

"Five better," said Hewley, winner again four times in the last five.

"Ten," said Wingo.

"And twenty," said the Secretary and Treasurer.

"Call you."

"Three kings."

"They are good, suh. Gove'nuh, I'll take a hun'red mo'."

Upon this the wealthy and weary Treasurer made a try for liberty and
bed. How would it do, he suggested, to have a round of jack-pots, say
ten--or twenty, if the member from Silver City preferred--and then stop?
It would do excellent