My Lord Rupert, another heavy drinker, had reached the rollicking stage, and was sitting with his wig askew. Mr. Fox had broached his second bottle, and seemed somnolent. My Lord Rupert won a little, lost again, and called up the table to his nephew: “Rot you, Vidal, this is poor sport! Quicken the game, my boy!”
“Take the bank, Rupert?”
My lord pulled his pocket linings out, and began to count the guineas that lay before him. It was a difficult business. “I make it eleven,” he announced with a hiccough. “Can’t start a bank on ’leven guineas, Vidal. Can’t start bank at Timothy’s on less than sixty guineas.”
The Marquis said recklessly: “Raise you to two hundred, gentlemen.”
Mr. Fox nodded. Bowling pushed back his chair. “I’m out,” he said. “That’s too deep for me, Vidal.”
“Bank can’t win for ever,” the Marquis replied. “Stay the course, Jack, the night’s young yet.”
Mr. Bowling blinked at the clock on the far wall. “Young? I make it past four.”
“That’s young, ain’t it?” said Lord Rupert. “Four? Why, that’s devilish young!”
Mr. Bowling laughed. “Oh, I protest! I’m a man of sedate habits. Do you mean to take your breakfast here? I’m for my bed.”
“Sit it out!” recommended Lord Cholmondley. “We’ll break Vidal yet. Vidal! Is that bay mare by Sunshine out of Mad Molly still in your stables? I’ll stake my Blue Lightning against the mare I break your bank before six.”