He quite ignored my presence, though I credited him with being simply unable to see me.

His pale, wishy-washy eyes were swimming like lazy summer seas, though what blissful visions they beheld were beyond my imagination.
"Get the cards, Hump," Wolf Larsen ordered, as they took seats at the table.

"And bring out the cigars and the whisky you'll find in my berth." I returned with the articles in time to hear the Cockney hinting broadly that there was a mystery about him, that he might be a gentleman's son gone wrong or something or other; also, that he was a remittance man and was paid to keep away from England--"p'yed 'ansomely, sir," was the way he put it; "p'yed 'ansomely to sling my 'ook an' keep slingin' it." I had brought the customary liquor glasses, but Wolf Larsen frowned, shook his head, and signalled with his hands for me to bring the tumblers.

These he filled two-thirds full with undiluted whisky--"a gentleman's drink ?" quoth Thomas Mugridge,--and they clinked their glasses to the glorious game of "Nap," lighted cigars, and fell to shuffling and dealing the cards.
They played for money.

They increased the amounts of the bets.