A Winter's Tale

"Who wants to learn to play Indian?" Pete announced.

The meal preparation momentarily ceased. It was mid-winter, the harshest in living memory. At Poolburn a group of friends had gathered for a rabbit hunt where the dam was frozen over.  Each member had agreed to supply one vegetable and harvest enough rabbit for a casserole. They spent the day as planned.

Back at the hut it was just on dark. They sorted the dogs, prepared the rabbits, lit the lanterns, and relaxed. The temperatures had plummeted outside, the huge coal range was stoked up. It cooked the casserole, and kept the hut very warm. A beer was opened by all.

Pete had pulled out a brand new pack of cards, shuffled them and dealt one to each pupil face down.

"Without looking at your card, stick it on your forehead, like this.”

 They followed. He then dealt another card, face up.

"Now! Base your bet, on the cards you can see,” he instructed.

 The game is a mixture of poker and blackjack.

Wardie pushed all his matches forward.

"I can beat you it doesn't matter what my forehead card is," he said.

"Wardie!!! You can't say that,” Pete replied.

“But I can,” he smirked.

The debate went backwards and forwards. Pete was irked, he transferred his attention to Cormac. The same thing happened. The supervision of the casserole had come to a halt. The chefs saw and knew all. Martin the third player followed suit. Pete was irritated. As he saw it, a lack of cooperation, from all.

Each player took his card off. BUT!!!! When Pete removed his, it was entirely blank. He was stumped and trumped! A lot of ribbing, laughter and another beer. The casserole was served. It certainly came up trumps. It was superb.

Grant Ward