Flynn was philosophical.
"The fortunes of war, Misther Canby. 'T'was a gran' fight, as fine a mill as you'll see in a loife time—wid the best man losin'—'S a shame, sor; but Masther Jerry w'u'd have his way—bad cess to 'm. You can't swap swipes wid a gorilla, sor. It ain't done."
"He beat me fairly," said Jerry sitting up.
"Who? Clancy? I'll match you agin him tomorrow, Masther Jerry," and he grinned cheerfully, "if ye'll but take advice."
"Advice!" sighed Jerry. "You were right Flynn—I—I was wrong."
"I wudden't mind if it wasn't for thinkin' of that fifteen thousand."
"I think he earned it," laughed Jack.
Jerry sat up on the edge of the bed and stared around, one eye only visible. The other was concealed behind a piece of raw meat that Flynn was holding over it.
"You lost something, Flynn?" he asked.
"A trifle, sor."