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Hurstwood showed his hand. He was done. The bitter fact that he
had lost seventy-five dollars made him desperate.
"Let’s have another pot," he said, grimly.
"All right," said the man.
Some of the other players quit, but observant loungers took their
places. Time passed, and it came to twelve o’clock. Hurstwood
held on, neither winning nor losing much. Then he grew weary,
and on a last hand lost twenty more. He was sick at heart.
At a quarter after one in the morning he came out of the place.
The chill, bare streets seemed a mockery of his state. He walked
slowly west, little thinking of his row with Carrie. He ascended
the stairs and went into his room as if there had been no trouble. It
was his loss that occupied his mind. Sitting down on the bedside
he counted his money. There was now but a hundred and ninety
dollars and some change. He put it up and began to undress.
"I wonder what’s getting into me, anyhow?" he said.
In the morning Carrie scarcely spoke, and he felt as if he must go
out again. He had treated her badly, but he could not afford to
make up. Now desperation seized him, and for a day or two, going
out thus, he lived like a gentleman-or what he conceived to be a
gentleman-which took money. For his escapades he was soon
poorer in mind and body, to say nothing of his purse, which had
lost thirty by the process. Then he came down to cold, bitter sense
"The rent man comes to-day," said Carrie, greeting him thus
indifferently three mornings later.
"Yes; this is the second," answered Carrie.
Hurstwood frowned. Then in despair he got out his purse.
"It seems an awful lot to pay for rent," he said.
He was nearing his last hundred dollars.