“Yes,” said Davis, eying the wine by the light, “that's a tipple this little inn here is not much accustomed to see under its roof; but if I were to stay a little longer, I 'd make something of this place. They never heard of Harvey's sauce, Chili vinegar, Caviare, Stilton; even Bass and British gin were novelties when I came. There, as well as I can make it up, you are a winner of fifteen naps; there they are.”
“Dear me, I fancied I stood safe to come off with a hundred!” said Paul, lugubriously.
“So you did, without counting the points; but you 've lost five hundred and sixty-four,—ay, and a right good thing you 've made of it, Master Paul. I 'd like to know how long it is since you earned such a sum honestly.”
Classon sighed heavily as he swept the cash into his pocket, and said, “I'm unable to tell you; my memory grows worse every day.”
“When you go back to England, you can always brush it up by the Police sheet,—that's a comfort,” said Davis, with a savage laugh.
“And what will the noble Viscount have to spend yearly?” asked Classon, to change the theme.
“Something between eight and ten thousand.”
“A snug thing, Kit,—a very snug thing indeed; and I take it that by this time o' day he knows the world pretty well.”
“No; nothing of the kind!” said Grog, bluntly; “he's a fool, and must stay a fool!”
“The more luck his, then, to have Christopher Davis for his father-in-law.”