“If I may make the suggestion,” said Brack courteously, “perhaps Mr. Pitt has duties or wishes which will prevent him from viewing our little sport.”
“Not ’tall, not ’tall,” said Chanler.
“Perhaps it would be well for Mr. Pitt to wait a few days until—shall we say until he has become more accustomed to our ways—before treating himself to a sight of our little amusements?”
“Why so?” I demanded.
“Oh, it is merely a suggestion. Our sport is rather primitive—the bare, crawling stuff of life without the perfumery, wrappings, or other fanciful hypocrisies of civilization. Mr. Pitt does not look like a man who would admit that life so exists, and therefore must refuse to behold it.”
Chanler turned from Brack to me, his teeth showing in a pleased smile.
“Ha! Hot shot for you, that, Gardy. What say, old peg; where’s your comeback—repartee, and all that?”
As I hesitated for a reply, he tapped the table impatiently.
“Come, come, Gardy! A little brilliance, please. We don’t let him touch us and get away without a counter, do we? Ha! At ’im, boy; at ’im!”
“As Mr. Brack——”