They parted almost sworn friends, for the real cards had been kindly to both, and neither had lost or won.
“It’s rather rough for going on board to-night,” said the doctor.
“Pish! Not a bit I’m not afraid of a few waves.”
“Well, don’t get drowned.”
“Those who are bound to be hanged will never be drowned,” came into Glyddyr’s head as the doctor departed, and the old saw sent quite a chill through him.
“Confound it. What a coward I am,” he muttered angrily. “I felt so much better all the evening. Here,” he said roughly to the waiter, who had come in accidentally, as waiters do when the guests begin to stir. “My bill.”
That document was quite ready; and after glancing at it, Glyddyr took a bank-note from his pocket-book, and laid it upon the tray.
The waiter bowed, went out, and returned with the note, crossed to a side table where there was a blotting case and inkstand, both of which he brought to where Glyddyr was smoking.
“What’s the matter? Not a bad one, is it?”
“Oh dear no, sir,” said the waiter, with a deprecatory cough, “only master said would you mind putting your name on the back?”