"Look here," said he, "we'll pick out the twelve best, and their owners
can cut with one another from a pack of cards."
After some discussion twelve were settled upon, but the number was
immediately raised to thirteen to prevent Jockey Bill disgracing the
camp by shooting before a lady. A pack of cards was placed on the bar,
and each man chose one, holding his selection face downward till all
were ready. Then the Scholar said, "Turn," and there were exhibited five
aces, two kings, a queen, three knaves, and two smaller cards. This was
awkward, to say the least of it, and, while sarcastic laughter rippled
among the spectators, there was an instinctive movement of right hands
toward the back of the belt on the part of each of the thirteen.
But the Scholar's voice, full of remonstrance, said, "Boys, you're being
looked at," and there was a regretful sigh or two, but no bloodshed.
Miss Musgrave gazed inquiringly from one to another, and the Scholar,
laying his hand on her arm, whispered something in her ear. She smiled,
whispered back, and was answered, and then, stripping off a pair of
well-fitting fawn gloves, she took the cards in a pretty little white
hand, and dealt out one to each of the competitors with charming
clumsiness.
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