Gentle Annie entered, with that regal air common to bar-maids who rule their soggy realms absolutely.
“Well, old gentleman, same old tipple, I suppose,” said she to Tresco.
“My dear, the usual; and see that it’s out of the wood, the real Mackay. And bring in some dice.”
The two men sat quietly till the bar-maid returned.
Tresco rattled the dice, and threw a pair of fours. “No deception,” he said. “Are these the house’s dice, my dear?”
“They’re out of the bar,” replied Gentle Annie.
“Are they in common use for throwing for drinks?”
“What d’you take me for? D’you think I know how to load dice?”
“My dear, this gentleman must know everything’s square when he plays with me. When we ring again, just bring in the usual. Adieu. Au revoir. Haere ra, which is Maori. Parting is such sweet sorrow.”
As the bar-maid disappeared the digger placed a pile of bank-notes on the table, and Tresco looked at them with feigned astonishment. “If you think, mister, that I can set even money again that, you over-estimate my influence with my banker. A modest tenner or two is about my height. But who knows?—before the evening is far spent perhaps my capital may have increased. Besides, there are always plenty of matches for counters—a match for a pound.”