“You can cry off the whole bet, if you’re afraid of it,” taunted his guest.
“Foh!” said Mr. Grinder. “’Tis but a matter of a hundred and eighty-nine pounds, when all is said and done. Never niggle at that, Sir Jasper. Go in, and win! ’Pon me soul!” cried the old sinner, rubbing his hands, “I’d sleep better in my grave if I thought the Standish estate had got Pitfold at last.”
“The stakes to be a thousand guineas,” murmured Devlin as he wrote, “out of which Sir Jasper remits the rest of Farmer Pounce’s mortgage, one hundred and eighty-nine pounds and hands the residue eight hundred and eleven, plus the shillings for the guineas, to Mr. Jocelyn Bellairs. Any backers? Fifty guineas on Jasper. Who’ll take me?”
Squire Upshott was too far gone, and Lawyer Grinder shook his head, so Sir James had to content himself with jotting down: “No backers.”
“Why, zounds!” exclaimed Sir Jasper, after he had ruminated a while. “It seems that more hangs on this betting to-night than the virtue of Miss, after all. What? The farm that we Standishes from grandfather down have vainly been trying to get hold of. That’s a fine idea of yours, Grinder, odds my life, it is! A thousand guineas besides, and as fine an armful—hark ye, Devlin, did ye notice her this morning in church, as neat as a chestnut filly? Foh! There’s blood in her, sir, there’s blood in her, or I’m no judge——”
He broke off. ’Twas a dashed superior smile on young puppy’s face. What made the fellow so cocksure, in the name of all that was sly? A sudden thought struck him.
“Look you here, Master Bellairs,” cried he, with a muffled roar. “No collusion! No putting your head and Miss Pounce’s together to do me out of a thousand guineas! Eh, Devlin? Eh, Grinder? No blanked tricks!”
Jocelyn’s nostrils quivered scornfully.
“I give you my word of honour, Sir Jasper,” said he, “to have no communication in private with the young lady till your week is out.”
“Come, come!” said Sir James. “Split me, Jasper, we’re all gentlemen here!”