‘But suppose he did (and nothing’s less likely, from all I know of chances), why, it’s better to lose other people’s money than one’s own, I hope?’
‘Ah!’ cried Isaac List rapturously, ‘the pleasures of winning! The delight of picking up the money—the bright, shining yellow-boys—and sweeping ‘em into one’s pocket! The deliciousness of having a triumph at last, and thinking that one didn’t stop short and turn back, but went half-way to meet it! The—but you’re not going, old gentleman?’
‘I’ll do it,’ said the old man, who had risen and taken two or three hurried steps away, and now returned as hurriedly. ‘I’ll have it, every penny.’
‘Why, that’s brave,’ cried Isaac, jumping up and slapping him on the shoulder; ‘and I respect you for having so much young blood left. Ha, ha, ha! Joe Jowl’s half sorry he advised you now. We’ve got the laugh against him. Ha, ha, ha!’
‘He gives me my revenge, mind,’ said the old man, pointing to him eagerly with his shrivelled hand: ‘mind—he stakes coin against coin, down to the last one in the box, be there many or few. Remember that!’
‘I’m witness,’ returned Isaac. ‘I’ll see fair between you.’
‘I have passed my word,’ said Jowl with feigned reluctance, ‘and I’ll keep it. When does this match come off? I wish it was over.—To-night?’
‘I must have the money first,’ said the old man; ‘and that I’ll have to-morrow—’
‘Why not to-night?’ urged Jowl.
‘It’s late now, and I should be flushed and flurried,’ said the old man. ‘It must be softly done. No, to-morrow night.’