They were playing for the last stake.

Nervously did Wilkinson lay card after card upon the table, while, with the most perfect coolness, his adversary played his hand, a certainty of winning apparent in every motion.

And he did win.
"Curse my luck!" exclaimed Wilkinson, grinding his teeth together, as the last five-dollar bill he had with him passed into the hands of his very particular friend.
There was more than "luck" against him, if he had but known it.
"The fortune of war," smilingly replied the winner.

"The race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, you know.

You played well--very well; never better within my knowledge.