For the news had gone out that here was Casey Ryan back again, a hopeless cripple, playing poker like a drunken Rockefeller and losing as if he liked to lose.
At eight o'clock the next morning Bill came in to tell Casey that the show people had brought up their car to be fixed, and was the pay good?
Casey replied Without looking up from his hand, which held a pair of queens which interested him.

He'd stand good, he said, and Bill gave a grunt and went off.
At noon Casey meant to eat something.

But another man had come into the game with a roll of money and a boastful manner.

Casey rubbed his cramped leg and hunched down in his chair again and called for a stack of blues.
Casey, I may as well confess, had been calling for stacks of blues and reds and whites rather often since midnight.
At four in the afternoon Casey hobbled into the restaurant and ate another steak and drank three cups of black coffee.

He meant to go across to the garage and have Bill hunt up the Barrymores and get them to unstrap him for awhile, but just as he was lifting his left crutch around the edge of the restaurant door, two women of Lund came up and began to pity him and ask him how it ever happened.