"It's my night," I sed. "Didn't I tell yer? I've got 'im on toast."
"'Oller when yer out o' the wood," growled Maxwell.
We went on playin', and I kep' on winnin'. Over two thousand wos now the figger. Louis could 'ardly keep still. There was no mistake about 'is bein' in dead earnest, but as for us—well, we wos all larfin' in our sleeves at 'im. It didn't turn out a larfin' matter in the end.
It was gittin' late, and I orfered to leave off.
"Wot d'yer mean?" cried Maxwell. "Do I ever orfer to leave off when I'm winnin'? Let's 'ave six games at five-pound points. It'll take a denced sight more nor that to break me."
"Would yer?" sed I, lookin' up at Louis.
"Let me take yer place," sed 'e; "I'll play 'im for any points 'e likes."
"No," I answered, "I'll see it out with 'im."
So we resoomed the game, and at the end I'd won a matter of five thousand pound. Didn't I wish it was real instead o' gammon?
"Now I'm on welwet," sed I, grinnin' and rubbin' my 'ands.