The Graukel-Tote knew he should be feeling smug. The League of Scoundrel-Misadventurers had challenged him to a game of Indeterminate Whist, wagering their lives against the prettiest jewels of his hoard, and had lost. They had accepted their downfall with excellent grace, embracing each other and making mock-solemn speeches and going in orderly file to their doom. They had been so courteous as to sprinkle themselves with cayenne pepper and cinnamon, the Tote's favorite condiments. It had all taken time; the League had numbered... how many, exactly? He'd lost count after the first dozen. Why wouldn't his mind settle? The game, probably. It had gone oddly; one might almost have thought the League were playing to lose. And now the last Misadventurer was slipping stoically feet-first into his gullet, the smirk on her raised muzzle just out of the Tote's sight; and as her head slid past his uvula, he heard her whisper: "Wafer-thin mint, wafer-thin mint..."