The Marquis poured more wine. “Make it five, and I’ll take you.”
Mr. Fox opened his eyes. “What’s amiss? You for bed too?”
“I don’t sit after five,” the Marquis said. “I’m for Newmarket and back again.”
Lord Cholmondley gaped at him. “God save us all, it’s not the day of your race? Man, you’re crazy to think to drive to Newmarket! Damme, Vidal, you’re drunk. You can’t do it! And here’s me with a cool five hundred backing you!”
“Be calm, my loved one,” mocked Vidal. “I drive best when I’m drunk.”
“But up all night — no, blister me, that’s too much. Get to bed, you madman!”
“What, to, save your stake for you? Be damned if I do! My coach calls for me at five. Does the bet stand? You’ll break my bank before five — your colt to my mare.”
“I’ll do it!” Cholmondley said, slapping the table with his open hand. “Got an hour, ha’n’t I? Time enough. Where’s the betting-book?”
The bet was duly entered. The waiter was about to remove the book when the Marquis drawled: “I’ll lay you a further five hundred I reach Newmarket under the given time, Cholmondley — play or pay.”
“Done!” said Cholmondley promptly. “Now I’m for you, my boy. Playing two hundred!”