Colonel Lamson, warmed with punch and good-fellowship and tobacco, grew brilliant at cards, and humorously reminiscent of old jokes between the games; John Jennings lagged at cards, but flashed out now and then with fine wit, while his fervently working brain lit up his worn face with the light of youth.

The lawyer, who drank more than the rest, played better and better, and waxed caustic in speech if crossed.

As for the Squire, his frankness increased even to the risk of self-praise.

Before the evening was over he had told the whole story of little Jerome, of Doctor Prescott and himself and the Edwards mortgage.

The three friends stared at him with unsorted cards in their hands.
"You are a damned fool!" cried Eliphalet Means, taking his pipe from his mouth.
"No," cried Jennings, "not a damned fool, but a rare fool," and his great black eyes, in their mournful hollows, flashed affectionately at Squire Eben.
"And I say he's a damned fool.