THE CRY OF THE PEACOCK
THE CRY OF THE PEACOCK
'Damn the dice!' cried the elder of the two players, in a spasm of rage; 'damn my ill-luck—damn everything!' and as he shouted his imprecations he regarded his opponent askance, as if including him in his malediction.
''Twas a thousand to one against you throwing two sixes,' he cried. Then he flung his marker on the floor, pushed back his chair, and rising, walked moodily to the chimney-piece and gazed despairingly into the fire, for his estate had vanished—his last two farms had been lost to the 'double six.' Not only had he lost his estate, but he was hopelessly indebted to his companion for many an I.O.U. and bill beyond his mortgage. He might be made bankrupt at any moment.
The other kept silence a few moments before he said anything. A gleam of triumph and delight had shown for a second in his eye, but outwardly he was as cool as ever.
''Tis a strange thing,' he said soothingly; 'I too have had my turn of ill-luck before this. I remember well one evening at Oxford years ago when I played high stakes with Lord Cantrip and others at "The House." Hadn't a stiver left one night, but I pawned my grandfather's Louis xiv. watch for the next evening's play. Luck turned, and I had my revenge. Had it not been for that last heirloom I should have enlisted, and probably have met my fate at Badajoz.'