father—while Shaky Phil Maydorf sat only a few feet away! He saw Madden staring at him, and he rose.
“For me, I guess,” he said carelessly. He tossed his cards on the table. “I’m out of it, anyhow.” Crossing the room to the telephone, he took down the receiver. “Hello. Hello, dad. Is that you?”
“Aces and trays,” said Maydorf. “All mine?” Madden laid down a hand without looking at his opponent’s, and Shaky Phil gathered in another pot.
“Yes, dad—this is Bob,” Eden was saying. “I arrived all right—stopping with Mr. Madden for a few days. Just wanted you to know where I was. Yes—that’s all. Everything. I may call you in the morning. Have a good game? Too bad. Good-bye!”
Madden was on his feet, his face purple. “Wait a minute,” he cried.
“Just wanted dad to know where I am,” Eden said brightly. He dropped back into his chair. “Whose deal is it, anyhow?”
Madden strangled a sentence in his throat, and once more the game was on. Eden was chuckling inwardly. More delay—and not his fault this time. The joke was on P.J. Madden.
His third stack was melting rapidly away, and he reflected with apprehension that the night was young, and time of no importance on the desert anyhow. “One more hand and I drop out,” he said firmly.
“One more hand and we all drop out!” barked Madden. Something seemed to have annoyed him.
“Let’s make it a good one, then,” said Maydorf. “The limit’s off, gentlemen.”
It was a good one, unexpectedly a contest between Maydorf and Bob
