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unusually hideous: one had a horrible harelip, while the other was
one-eyed, heavy jowled, and pock-marked, and was known
as Rasmus Squint, plainly because the skin around the
injured eye was drawn together in such a manner as to give
him the appearance of being always ready to peer through
a key-hole or some such small aperture.
The players were sitting at one end of the long table
which ran under the window and held a candle and an
earless cruse. Opposite them was a folding-table, fastened
up against the wall with an iron hook. A bar ran across the
other end of the room, and a thin, long-wicked candle,
stuck into an old inverted funnel, threw a sleepy light over
the shelf above, where some large, square flasks of brandy
and bitters, some quart and pint measures, and half-a-dozen
glasses had plenty of room beside a basket full of mustard
seed and a large lantern with panes of broken glass. In one
corner outside of the bar sat Marie Grubbe, knitting and
drowsing, and in the other sat a man with body bent
forward and elbows resting on his knees. He seemed intent on
pulling his black felt hat as far down over his head as
possible, and when that was accomplished, he would clutch
the wide brim, slowly work the hat up from his head again,
his eyes pinched together and the corners of his mouth
twitching, probably with the pain of pulling his hair, then
presently begin all over again.
“Then this is the last game to play,” said Jens Bottom,
whose lead it was.
Rasmus Squint pounded the table with his knuckles as
a sign to his partner, Salmand, to cover.
Salmand played two of trumps.
“A two!” cried Rasmus; “have you nothing but twos
and threes in your hand?”
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