“We said, two fifty,” replied O'Shea, in his silkiest of tones.
“Be it so,” muttered Heathcote; “I gave two hundred for the chestnut horse at Tattersall's.”
“He was dear,—too dear,” was the dry reply.
“Esterhazy called him the best horse he ever bred.”
“He shall have him this morning for a hundred and twenty.”
“Well, well,” burst in Heathcote, “we are not here to dispute about that. I handed you, as well as I remember, eighty, and two hundred and thirty Naps.”
“More than that, I think,” said O'Shea, thoughtfully, and as if laboring to recollect clearly.
“I'm certain I'm correct,” said Heathcote, haughtily. “I made no other payments than these two,—eighty and two hundred and thirty.”
“What a memory I have, to be sure!” said O'Shea, laughingly. “I remember now, it was a rouleau of fifty that I paid away to Layton was running in my head.”
Heathcote's lip curled superciliously, but it was only for a second, and his features were calm as before. “Two thirty and eighty make three hundred and ten, and three fifty—”