The dealer was a humourless sort, with an off-white hat and a striped silk shirt. He had pale-blue eyes with needle-sharp pupils, and a moustache clipped as close as a currying brush. ‘Good evening, gents,’ he said in a marked New Orleans accent, and proceeded to shuffle the pack.

‘I’ll be casekeeper, unless there are any objections,’ Collis said, sitting.

The dealer glanced at him acutely, shrugged, and passed over the abacus. On it were painted small pictures of all the cards in the suit of spades, and beside each painted card was a wire, holding a row of four beads. Whenever a card was played — any card in any suit, because the spades on the abacus had no special significance — Collis would record it by moving a bead. It was supposed to help players keep track of what was being dealt, and prevent arguments; although here, Collis reflected, it was probably necessary to save players from having their kidneys blown out.

‘Are we all happy, gentlemen?’ asked the dealer. ‘Do you want a refill before we start?’ He nodded to the waitress, who went to the bar to bring them more drinks.

On the green cloth table in front of them, stained by whisky and burned by abandoned cigars, the suit of spades was marked out again, full-size. The players could bet on any rank of card to win, or any rank of card to lose, simply by piling silver or gold dollars on the appropriate picture. If they were betting on a card to lose, they would top their pile of money with a small hexagonal copper token, stamped ‘Eagle Saloon’.

Collis took out his purse, produced ninety dollars in silver coins, two-thirds of all the money he had left, and bet on aces to win, threes to win, and queens to lose, thirty dollars on each. Andrew, with an unlit cheroot in his mouth, watched him carefully and then placed his own bets. He, too, bet on queens to lose. Charles bet on aces to lose.

The dealer held the pack, face up, in the dealing box in front of him. He played the first card, soda, which didn’t count in the game. Then he played the second card, the five of diamonds, and that was a loser. Collis recorded the play on his abacus without taking his eyes off the dealing box. Underneath the five of diamonds was the ace of clubs, and that was a winner.

‘Nice one,’ said Andrew, striking a match and lighting up his cheroot. The dealer, expressionless, paid Collis thirty dollars. All stakes, on winning or losing cards, were paid off at even odds. Collis placed thirty dollars on nines to lose.

The dealer took the winning card out of the box and placed it on the table to form a pile of winning cards. The next loser, the seven of hearts, he put down to form a losing pile. The next winner was the three of hearts. He paid Collis another thirty dollars, still, as Andrew was later to remark, ‘with a face like a brass doorplate’.