"Tackle father!" repeated Dick. "Look here! that's not the way to talk about the governor, Nancy."
"Oh, Dick darling, don't call me Nancy. I feel that I'm trembling under the weight of your displeasure."
Joan hastened to her relief. "When she said 'tackle,' she only meant that I betted her four weeks' pocket-money that father wouldn't let us have a pony," she said.
"You mean well, but you've done it now," said Nancy.
"Really, it's about time that you two had somebody to look after you," said Dick. "Who on earth taught you to bet, I should like to know?"
"Humphrey," replied Nancy promptly. "We were standing by him, and he betted us a shilling each that he would bring down the next bird that came over. He didn't, and he paid up promptly."
"We wanted him to bet again, but he refused," said Joan.
"But it gave us a taste for speculation which we shall probably never overcome," said Nancy.
Dick grunted. "Humphrey oughtn't to have done it," he said. "You are not to bet with each other, you two. And that bet about the pony—which was infernal cheek to make, anyhow—is off. Do you hear?"
"Yes, Dick dear," said Joan obediently. "But what does a bet being 'off' mean, exactly?"