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poker.
    “Again,” said Seth coldly.
    “Goddamn you,” said Harrington. “O.K. There you are. Call.”
    “All pink,” said Seth softly, fanning out his diamond flush on the table.
    Harrington, who had held a king high straight, purpled.
    “Goddamn it,” he said. “The one hand I hold all night and it's no good. You win, Buswell.”
    “Yes,” said Seth and looked at the millowner, “I generally do, in the end.”
    Harrington looked Seth straight in the eyes. “If there's one thing I hate more than a poor loser,” he said, “it's a poor winner.”
    “Hold up a mirror and you're bound to see your own reflection, as I always say.” Seth grinned at Harrington. “What do you always say, Leslie?”
    Charles Partridge stood up and stretched. “Well, boys, morning comes early. Guess I'll be on my way.”
    Harrington ignored the lawyer. “It's the man who holds the best cards who wins, Seth. That's what I always say. Wait a minute, Charlie. I'll walk home with you.”
    When Partridge and Harrington had left, Dr. Swain put a sympathetic hand on Seth's arm.
    “Too bad, feller,” he said. “But I think you'd better wait a while and talk to Jared and Leighton before you start anything about those shacks in your paper.”
    “Wait for what?” demanded Seth angrily. “I've been waiting for years. What'll we wait for this time, Doc? Typhoid? Polio? Pay your money and take your choice.”
    “I know. I know,” said Dr. Swain. “All the same, you'd best wait a while. You've got to educate people to new ways of thinking, and that's a long, slow process sometimes. If you go off half cocked, they'll turn on you the same as Leslie did tonight and tell you how those shacks have been around town for years, and we've never had an epidemic of any kind yet.”
    “Hell, Doc, I don't know. Maybe a good epidemic would solve everything. Perhaps the town would be better off without the characters who live in those places.”
    “There is nothing dearer than life, Seth,” said Dr Swain gruffly. “Even the lives being lived in our shacks.”
    “Please,” said Seth, his good humor restored. “You could at least refer to them as ‘camps’ or ‘summer dwellings’!”
    “The suburbs!” exclaimed Dr. Swain. “That's it, by God! Question: “Where do you live, Mr. Shackowner?’ Answer: ‘I live in the suburbs and commute to Peyton Place.’”
    Both men laughed. “Have another drink before you go,” said Seth.
    “Yes, sir , Suburbia,” said Dr. Swain. “We could even name these estates. How about Pine Crest, or Sunny Hill, or Bide-A-Wee? ”
    “You left out Maple Knoll and Elm Ridge,” said Seth.
    It wasn't funny, though, reflected Dr. Swain half an hour later after he had left Seth and was taking his usual nightly walk before going home.
    He walked south, after leaving Chestnut Street, and was no more than half a mile out of town when he passed the first shack. A light shone dimly through one small window, and a curl of smoke rose thinly from the tin chimney. Dr. Swain stopped in the middle of the dirt road and looked at the tiny, black tar-papered building which housed Lucas Cross, his wife Nellie and their three children. Dr. Swain had been inside the shack once, and knew that the interior consisted of one room where the family ate, slept and lived.
    Must be colder than hell in the winter, thought the doctor, and felt that he had said the kindest thing possible about the home of the Cross family.
    As he was turning to walk back to town, a sudden shrill scream echoed in the night.
    “Christ!” said Dr. Swain aloud, and began to run toward the shack, picturing all kinds of accidents and cursing himself for not carrying his doctor's bag at all times. He was at the door when he heard Lucas Cross's voice.
    “Goddamn sonofabitch,” yelled Lucas drunkenly. “Where'd you put it?”
    There was a loud crash, as if someone had fallen, or been pushed, over a chair.
    “I told you and told you,” came Nellie's whine.