In Her Own Right. Scott John Reed
Erskine’s voice.
“Oh, Lord! the old dragoon!” said Leigh. “I trust I’m not at her table.”
And he was not – Miss Tilghman and Dangerfield were designated.
“Come over and help to keep me straight,” Croyden whispered to Miss Carrington.
She shook her head at him with a roguish smile.
“You’ll find your partner amply able to keep you straight,” she answered.
The game began. Miss Tilghman won the cut and made it a Royal Spade.
“They no longer play Royal Spades in New York,” said Miss Erskine.
“Don’t know about New York,” returned Miss Tilghman, placidly, “but we’re playing them here, this evening. Your lead, Miss Amelia.”
The latter shut her thick lips tightly, an instant.
“Oh, well, I suppose we must be provincial a little longer,” she said, sarcastically. “Of course, you do not still play Royal Spades in Northumberland, Mr. Croyden.”
“Yes, indeed! Play anything to keep the game moving,” Croyden answered.
“Oh, to be sure! I forgot, for the instant, that Northumberland is a rapid town. – I call that card, Edith – the King of Hearts!” as Miss Tilghman inadvertently exposed it.
A moment later, Miss Tilghman, through anger, also committed a revoke, which her play on the succeeding trick disclosed.
That it was a game for pure pleasure, without stakes, made no difference to Miss Erskine. Technically it was a revoke, and she was within her rights when she exclaimed it.
“Three tricks!” she said exultantly, “and you cannot make game this hand.”
“I’m very sorry, partner,” Miss Tilghman apologized.
“It’s entirely excusable under the circumstances,” said Dangerfield, with deliberate accent. “You may do it again!”
“How courteous Mr. Dangerfield is,” Miss Erskine smiled. “To my mind, nothing excuses a revoke except sudden blindness.”
“And you would claim it even then, I suppose?” Dangerfield retorted.
“I said, sudden blindness was the only excuse, Mr. Dangerfield. Had you observed my language more closely, you doubtless would have understood. – It is your lead, partner.”
Dangerfield, with a wink at Croyden, subsided, and the hand was finished, as was the next, when Croyden was dummy, without further jangling. But midway in the succeeding hand, Miss Erskine began.
“My dear Mr. Croyden,” she said, “when you have the Ace, King, and no more in a suit, you should lead the Ace and then the King, to show that you have no more – give the down-and-out signal. We would have made an extra trick, if you had done so – I could have given you a diamond to trump. As it was, you led the King and then the Ace, and I supposed, of course, you had at least four in suit.”
“I’m very sorry; I’ll try to remember in future,” said Croyden with affected contrition.
But, at the end of the hand, he was in disgrace again.
“If your original lead had been from your fourth best, partner, I could have understood you,” she said. “As it was, you misinformed me. Under the rule of eleven, I had but the nine to beat, I played the ten and Mr. Dangerfield covered with the Knave, which by the rule you should have held. We lost another trick by it, you see.”
“It’s too bad – too bad!” Croyden answered; “that’s two tricks we’ve lost by my stupid playing. I’m afraid I’m pretty ignorant, Miss Erskine, for I don’t know what is meant by the rule of eleven.”
Miss Erskine’s manner of cutting the cards was somewhat indicative of her contempt – lingeringly, softly, putting them down as though she scorned to touch them except with the tips of her fingers.
“The rule of eleven is usually one of the first things learned by a beginner at Bridge,” she said, witheringly. “I do not always agree with Mr. Elwell, some of whose reasoning and inferences, in my opinion, are much forced, but his definition of this rule is very fair. I give it in his exact words, which are: ‘Deduct the size of the card led from eleven, and the difference will show how many cards, higher than the one led, are held outside the leader’s hand.’ For example: if you lead a seven then there are four higher than the seven in the other three hands.”
“I see!” Croyden exclaimed. “What a bully rule! – It’s very informing, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s very informing – in more ways than one,” she answered.
Whereat Miss Tilghman laughed outright, and Dangerfield had to retrieve a card from the floor, to hide his merriment.
“What’s the hilarity?” asked Miss Carrington, coming over to their table. “You people seem to be enjoying the game.”
Which sent Miss Tilghman into a gale of laughter, in which Dangerfield joined.
Miss Erskine frowned in disapproval and astonishment.
“Don’t mind them, Mr. Croyden,” she said. “They really know better, but this is the silly season, I suppose. They have much to learn, too – much to learn, indeed.” She turned to Miss Carrington. “I was explaining a few things about the game to Mr. Croyden, Davila, the rule of eleven and the Ace-King lead, and, for some reason, it seemed to move them to jollity.”
“I’m astonished!” exclaimed Miss Carrington, her violet eyes gleaming with suppressed mirth.
“I hope Mr. Croyden does not think we were laughing at him!” cried Miss Tilghman.
“Of course not!” returned Croyden solemnly, “and, if you were, my stupidity quite justified it, I’m sure. If Miss Erskine will only bear with me, I’ll try to learn – Bully thing, that rule of eleven!”
It was now Croyden’s deal and the score, games all – Miss Erskine having made thirty-six on hers, and Dangerfield having added enough to Miss Tilghman’s twenty-eight to, also, give them game.
“How cleverly you deal the cards,” Miss Erskine remarked. “You’re particularly nimble in the fingers.”
“I acquired it dealing faro,” Croyden returned, innocently.
“Faro!” exclaimed Miss Carrington, choking back a laugh. “What is faro?”
“A game about which you should know nothing, my dear,” Miss Erskine interposed. “Faro is played only in gambling hells and mining camps.”
“And in some of the Clubs in New York,” Croyden added – at which Miss Tilghman’s mirth burst out afresh. “That’s where I learned to copper the ace or to play it open. – I’ll make it no trumps.”
“I’ll double!” said Miss Tilghman.
“I’ll go back!”
“Content.”
“Somebody will win the rubber, this hand,” Miss Erskine platitudinized, – with the way such persons have of announcing a self evident fact – as she spread out her hand. “It is fair support, partner.”
Croyden nodded. Then proceeded with much apparent thought and deliberation, to play the hand like the veriest tyro.
Miss Erskine fidgeted in her seat, gave half smothered exclamations, looked at him appealingly at every misplay. All with no effect. Croyden was wrapped in the game – utterly oblivious to anything but the cards – leading the wrong one, throwing the wrong one, matching pasteboards, that was all.
Miss Erskine was frantic. And when, at the last, holding only a thirteener and a fork in Clubs, he led the losing card of the latter, she could endure the agony no longer.
“That is five tricks you have lost, Mr. Croyden, to say nothing of the rubber!” she snapped. “I must go, now – a delightful game! thank you, my dear