“Two fifty for the trap!” broke in O'Shea.
“Ah! to be sure, two fifty, make altogether five hundred and sixty Naps, leaving, let me see—ninety-four—sixty-one—one hundred and twelve—”
“A severe night that was. You never won a game!” chimed in O'Shea.
“—One hundred and twelve and seventy, making three hundred and thirty-seven in all. Am I right?”
“Correct as Cocker, only you have forgotten your walk against time, from the fish-pond to the ranger's lodge. What was it,—ten Naps, or twenty?”
“Neither. It was five, and I paid it!” was the curt answer.
“Ain't I the stupidest dog that ever sat for a borough?” said O'Shea, bursting out into one of his boisterous laughs. “Do you know, I'd have been quite willing to have bet you a cool hundred about that?”
“And you 'd have lost,” said Heathcote, dryly.
“Not a doubt of it, and deserved it too,” said he, merrily.
“I have brought you here one hundred and fifty,” said Heathcote, laying down three rouleaux on the table, “and, for the remainder, my note at three months. I hope that may not prove inconvenient?”