“Nine,” answered Tappingham. “It's to be a full sitting, remember.”
“Don't fear for us,” laughed Trumble.
“Nor for Crailey,” Jefferson added. “After so long a vacation you couldn't keep him away if you chained him to the court-house pillars; he'd tear 'em in two!”
“Here's to our better fortunes, then!” said the old soldier, filling a glass for Tappingham; and, “Here's to our better fortunes!” echoed the young men, pouring off the gentle liquor heartily. Having thus made libation to their particular god, the trio separated. But Jefferson did not encounter the alacrity of acceptance he expected from Crailey, when he found him, half an hour later, at the hotel bar. Indeed, at first, Mr. Gray not only refused outright to go, but seriously urged the same course upon Jefferson; moreover, his remonstrance was offered in such evident good faith that Bareaud, in the act of swallowing one of his large doses of quinine, paused with only half the powder down his throat, gazing, nonplussed, at his prospective brother-in-law.
“My immortal soul!” he gasped. “Is this Crailey Gray? What's the trouble?”
“Nothing,” replied Crailey, quietly. “Only don't go, you've lost enough.”
“Well, you're a beautiful one!” Jefferson exclaimed, with an incredulous laugh. “You're a master hand; you, to talk about losing enough!”
“I know, I know,” Crailey began, shaking his head, “but—”
“You've promised Fanchon never to go again, and you're afraid Miss Betty will see or hear us, and tell her you were there.”
“I don't know Miss Carewe.”