“And you, Captain,” said Scanlan, in his tone of natural familiarity,—“how is the world treating you?”
“Devilish badly, Master Scanlan.”
“Why, what is it doing, then?”
“I'll tell you what it's doing! It's charging me fifty—ay, sixty per cent; it's protesting my bills, stimulating my blessed creditors to proceed against me, worrying my very life out of me with letters. Letters to the governor, letters to the Horse Guards, and, last of all, it has just lamed Bonesetter, the horse 'I stood to win' on for the Chester Cup, I would n't have taken four thousand for my book yesterday morning!”
“Bad news all this.”
“I believe you,” said he, lighting a cigar, and throwing another across the table to Scanlan. “It's just bad news, and I have nothing else for many a long day past. A fellow of your sort, Master Maurice, punting away at county races and small sweepstakes, has a precious deal better time of it than a captain of the King's Hussars with his head and shoulders in the Fleet.”
“Come, come, who knows but luck will turn, Captain? Make a book on the Oaks.”
“I've done it; and I'm in for it, too,” said the other, savagely.
“Raise a few thousands, you can always sell a reversion.”
“I have done that also,” said he, still more angrily.