“Len’s right, the club won’t do neither. I couldn’t hold a card straight tonight. I’ll get some dinner, and go back, and we’ll have it all over again.”
It was a wise and virtuous resolution; and, unlike most resolves, Jack meant to keep it. But alas! before he had got through with his soup, the door opened and two men strolled in.
They were both young and well-known. The one was Sir Arkroyd Hetley; the other, the young Lord Dalrymple, whose coronet had scarcely yet warmed his forehead, as the French say.
Both of them uttered an exclamation at seeing Jack, and made straight for his table.
“Why, here’s the Savage!” exclaimed Dalrymple. “Back to his native forest primeval.”
“Been on the war trail, Jack?” asked Sir Arkroyd. “How are the squaws and wigwams? Seriously, where have you been, old man?”
“Yes, I have been on the war trail,” he said.
“And got some scalps, I hope,” said Dalrymple. “What are you doing—dining? What do you say, Ark, shall we join him? It’s so long since I’ve eaten anything that I should like to watch a man do it before I make an attempt.”
The footman put chairs and rearranged the table, and the two men chatted and conned over the carte.
“You don’t look quite the thing, Jack. Been going it in the forest, or what?”