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Knowing when to stop is a matter of pride to Race, something he could tuck inside his coat to keep him warm on a cold night. Sure, he loss more than he won, but he never loss more than he could afford. Not so with the others.
Now, to be fair, Mush was pretty good at spotting when to call it a night. There were times when his smile was a little too big and his eyes a little too bright, nights when Race knew he could push his luck because Mush wasn't going to consider the odds, but those were few and far between.
And Blink, well, Blink could see more with his one eye than any of the rest could see with their two. It was harder to separate Blink from his cash than to sell a paper to a reporter. Still, he too had his weakness-- a little gin and a hot number is a tightly laced dress did him in every time. But, seeing as how neither of those were particularly easy to come by, Blink did alright for himself.
Specs, Dutchy and David could all be lumped into one cautious pile. They counted cards, the lot of them, and bet only so much as they could stand to lose. But their belief in their skills was their downfall and more than one time Race had spotted one or the other of them for their paper money. Still, he didn't hold it against them, nobody could be expected to be right all the time, after all.
The other boys, it shamed Race to say, were as easy marks as one could come by. They drank deep on the thrill and bet on hands that most would fold on. Race, well, he did his best not to take too much for any of them. He didn't want to the be ruin of a friend, even if they had bricks for brains when it came to the cards.
Now normally he wouldn't lump Jack or Spot into that last group. Normally they would be in somewheres above Mush, what with their cool heads and their cast iron faces. But get them together and both of them sank to the bottom of the list. Because even if the littles like Boots and Les didn't know when to fold, they knew when to cut their losses and slink away with their tails tucked. But Jack and Spot? Put them together and neither of them knew how to quit.
Race didn't wonder at it. Not knowing them the way he did. Leaders, the both of them, and too full of pride to ever back down from someone they considered their equal. It did sting a little, knowing that the pair of them didn't include him in their ranks, but push come to shove, Race had to admit that they were right.
He wasn't a leader. Never would be. And would be the first to laugh at the fool who suggested he was. No, Race was a middle of the road kind of guy. Nice to have at your back, but not the sort of fella you wanted leading you into the fight. And he accepted that about himself. Which is why when Jack and Spot beckoned, he always came, and why, though it pained him to keep his yap shut, he never breathed a word about what happened during those games.
Because sometimes, in the wee hours of the night when the rest of the lodging house was sleeping and only Race was around to notice, the walls came down. Spot's smile stopped being smug and Jack's voice lost that cocky edge. Sometimes, Jack would talk without trying to impress and Spot would laugh without being cruel. And when their eyes met, the look between them would send sparks flying that had nothing to do with starting a fight.
And Race, watching carefully as he always did, knew that the pot would come to him. Because when it came down to it, Jack and Spot, well they couldn't stop. Not when it meant the end of the hand, the end of the night, the end of their moment. Knowing how to stop was something that Race prided himself on, something he tucked in his coat to keep him warm on a cold night, but even so, he wished he had something he couldn't quit, the way Jack and Spot did.