“Two hundred and fifty dibs” (i.e., rupees); “wouldn’t take four hundred for him at this moment.”
“Isn’t he a little puffed in that off fore-leg?” said Captain Syphax, drily.
“No, not that I know of.”
“Who was at Mrs. Roundabout’s hop last night? they say that old Crosslight, the brigade major, was more than ordinarily attentive to the widow.”
“Oh! I didn’t hear that—by the way, Tom, when does your affair come on?”
“Nonsense! how do I know?”
“Hear him; hear him! hear the Benedict!”
“Rantipole, I’ll bet you five gold mohurs,” said one of the subs, “that my old Toorkie beats your new purchase once round the course, P. P.”
“Done! but I don’t sport gold mohurs; say five chicks,[[30]] and it’s a bet; or I don’t mind if I make it ten.”
“Chicks, Tom,” said I, aside; “isn’t it rather an odd thing to bet fowls on a horse race? this is another of your Indian customs, I suppose, the reasonableness of which is not apparent at a glance.”