So the week wore on and it was Saturday again, and to-morrow, for good or evil, the question must be put.
That evening, as Duke and I were sitting talking after supper, Jason’s voice came clamoring up the stairs and a moment after my brother burst into the room. He was in high spirits—flushed and boisterous as a young Antinous—and he flung himself into a chair and nodded royally to Duke.
“Renny’s chum, I suppose?” said he. “And that’s a distinction to be proud of, for all it’s his brother that says so. Glad to know you, Straw.”
Duke didn’t answer, but he returned the nod, striving to gloze over prejudice genially for my sake.
“Renny, old chap!” cried Jason, “I sha’n’t want my friend at court yet—not yet, by a long chalk, I hope. Look here.”
He seized a purse from his pocket and clapped it down on the table with a jingling thud.
“There’s solid cash for you, my boy! Forty-three pounds to a penny, and a new pleasure to the pretty face of each of ’em.”
“Where on earth did you get it, Jason?”
“Won’t you be shocked, Barebones? Come with me some night and see for yourself.”
“You’ve been gambling, I believe.”