"Don't do that," he said; "it's an even shot. What will you bet?"
"I'll bet you my prospective dividends for the year," she said, "against——"
"My prospective title?"
He looked rather solemn, but laughter bubbled from Gay.
"It's a good sporting proposition," said Pritchard. "It's a very sound title—old, resonant—and unless you upset us and we drown, tolerably certain to be mine to pay—in case I lose."
"I don't bet blindly," said Gay. "What is the title?"
"I shall be the Earl of Merrivale," said he; "and if I fail this day to take a char weighing three pounds or over, you will be the Countess of Merrivale."
"Dear me!" said Gay, "who ever heard of so much depending on a mere fish? But I don't like my side of the bet. It's all so sudden. I don't know you well enough, and you're sure to lose."
"I'll take either end of the bet you don't like," said Mr. Pritchard gravely. "If I land the three-pounder, you become the countess; if I don't, I pay you the amount of your dividends for the year. Is that better?"
"Much," smiled Gay; "because, with the bet in this form, there is practically no danger that either of us will lose anything. My dividends probably won't amount to a row of pins, and you most certainly will not land so big a fish."