“And the result?” I asked anxiously.
“I owe Fothergill between six and seven hundred pounds and I haven’t as many shillings.”
I stopped short and looked at him in horror.
“Seven hundred pounds! Why, Cis, how on earth came you to play up to that figure and with a man you know so little of?”
“Oh, the man’s all right—at least, he’s no sharper, if you mean that!” Cecil answered doggedly. “It was my own fault altogether. He’s a better player than I am, and, of course, won.”
“But he ought not to have gone on,” I protested. “I don’t know much about such matters, but I feel sure that a gentleman wouldn’t sit down and win seven hundred pounds from a boy of your age. You’re not eighteen yet, you know, Cis.”
“I don’t quite see what age has got to do with it,” he answered gloomily. “As regards Fothergill, I don’t feel particularly sweet on him just now, as you may imagine; but it wasn’t his fault at all. I made him go on, and, you know, the winner is a great deal in the hands of the loser in a case of that sort. He kept on wanting to go and he went at last. I should have gone on playing till now, I think, if he hadn’t.”
“When does he expect you to settle up?” I asked.
“I’ve got to see him this afternoon. I say, you’ll come down with me, old chap, won’t you?” he pleaded. “I shall have to ask for a little time, of course.”
“Yes, I’ll go with you,” I promised. “How shall you try to raise the money?”