"I know a blizzard when I see it," said Bunning-Ford, indifferently.

Lablache sipped his whisky. A silence fell on that gathering of
refugees. Mrs. Norton had cleared the supper things.

"Well, if you gents'll excuse me I'll go back to bed. Old Joe'll look
after you," she said abruptly. "Good-night to you all."

She disappeared up the staircase. The men remained silent for a moment
or two. They were getting drowsy. Suddenly Lablache set his glass down
and looked at his watch.

"Four o'clock, gentlemen. I suppose, Joe, there are no beds for us." The
old farmer shook his head. "What say, John--Doc--a little game until
breakfast?"

John Allandale's face lit up. His sobriquet was no idle One. He lived
for poker--he loved it. And Lablache knew it. Old John turned to the
others. His right cheek twitched as he waited the decision. "Doc" Abbot
smiled approval; "Lord" Bill shrugged indifferently. The old gambler
rose to his feet.

"That's all right, then. The kitchen table is good enough for us. Come
along, gentlemen."

"I'll slide off to bed, I guess," said Norton, thankful to escape a
night's vigil. "Good-night, gentlemen."

Then the remaining four sat down to play.