“Some men are born lucky,” said Hepburn, and straightened unconsciously as he said it.
CHAPTER XXXIII
CHERRY DISPOSES.
WE had had a merry lunch, we had watched the tests of the draught cattle, we had all drunk pink lemonade and survived, and now, by unanimous vote, we had decided to stay and have our dinner in the “Mammoth Restaurant,” and go home by the light of the golden hunter’s moon.
The wheel of fortune had been dismantled and the man who ran it and the man who had been so lucky had gone off together. They seemed to have struck up a friendship, and I am told that it not unfrequently happens that lucky men and professional gamblers make the rounds of the various county fairs and the luck of both continues until the end of the season.
Sibthorp was not the life of the party at lunch, but Hepburn was in high spirits.
I judged that Sibthorp had been tried and found wanting and that Hepburn had been accounted worthy. Jack and Billy were their usual irresponsible selves and Tom bubbled over with a merriment that was at times elephantine but always genuine.
After lunch Sibthorp came to me and we strolled away naturally and easily. I put on my best father confessor air and waited for him to unbosom himself.
“It’s all over,” said he.
“What? You’ve asked her?”