“Oh, no, sir! I beg you—I entreat—” I began; but already, “Done,” had been loudly uttered by both together, and the bet was ratified.
“Don't be nervous, boy,” said my father, handing me his cue. “You see what's on the balls. You cannon and hold the white, and land the red in the middle pocket. If you can't do the brilliant thing, and finish the game with an eight stroke, do the safe one,—the cannon or the hazard. But, above all, don't lose your stroke, sir. Mind that, for I've a pot of money on the game.”
“I don't think you ought to counsel him, Norcott,” said Cleremont. “If he's a player, he's fit to devise his own game.”
“Oh, hang it, no,” broke in Hotham; “Norcott has a perfect right to tell him what's on the table.”
“If you object seriously, sir,” said my father proudly, “the party is at an end.”
“I put it to yourself,” began Cleremont.
“You shall not appeal to me against myself, sir. You either withdraw your objection, or you maintain it.”
“Of course he withdraws it,” said Hotham, whose eyes never wandered from my father's face.
Cleremont nodded a half-unwilling assent.
“You will do me the courtesy to speak, perhaps,” said my father; and every word came from him with a tremulous roll.