“’Pon my soul, Luke, if I could feel sure that Cain would be hung for it, I shouldn’t mind playing Abel.”
“Look at that!” cried the squire, as, after a random shot, the red ball went into one pocket, the white into another. “There’s a shot!”
“Yes—a fluke,” sneered Tom. “Your life has been a series of flukes. It was one that you were born first, and another that you ever lived; while in earnest, as in play, it’s always flake, fluke, fluke!”
“Anchor flukes take fast hold of the ground, Tom,” said the squire, with a sneering laugh.
“Yes, and of the money, too,” cried Tom. “Come, I’ll give you another chance. Will you let me have that cash?”
“No.”
“Not to save me from a writ?”
“Who holds the bills?”
“That scoundrel Thompson. North’s cousin.”
“Then he’ll worry you well for it,” said the squire. “Let him. It’ll be a lesson for you, and bring you to your senses. You’ll be more careful.”