“No, pounds,—pounds sterling,” said Beecher, with a half-choking effort.
“It was a fancy price,” said Grog, slowly, not the slightest sign of displeasure manifesting itself on his face as he spoke.
“You don't think, then, that it was too much?” faltered out Beecher.
“Perhaps not, under the circumstances,” said Davis, keenly.
“What do you mean by 'under the circumstances'?”
Davis threw his cigar into the stream, pushed bottle and glasses away from him,—far enough to permit him to rest both his arms on the table,—and then, steadfastly fixing his eyes on the other, with a look of intense but not angry significance, said, “How often have I told you, Beecher, that it was no use to try a 'double' with me? Why, man, I know every card in your hand.”
“I give you my sacred word of honor, Grog—”
“To be renewed at three months, I suppose?” said Davis, sneeringly. “No, no, my boy, it takes an earlier rise to get to the blind side of Kit Davis. I 'm not angry with you for trying it,—not a bit, lad; there 's nothing wrong in it but the waste of time.”
“May I be hanged, drawn, and quartered, if I know what you are at, Grog!” exclaimed the other, piteously.
“Well, all I can say is I read you easier than you read me. You gave old Lazarus a thousand pounds for that book after reading that paragraph in the 'Times.'”