He had a fierce desire to kick this vile newcomer—this Mosenthal, 'the foreigner,' or 'ootner'—the son of a rich Jewish Manchester tradesman—out of the house, but the fellow was his guest, and he checked himself. Above all, he dreaded public bankruptcy; he, the last male descendant of the proud race of Heronsbeck.
'Think it over,' said the other quietly. 'I think 'tis a fair offer—free to take or free to drop.'
Still his host made no reply. The other after a little pause proceeded with his tempting proposals. He had reached out his hand for the dice-box on the table; he took it up and rattled the dice in the box as if to throw on to the table.
'Come,' he cried vivaciously. 'Have a throw! Let luck decide. I'll back your throw against mine. A hundred pounds to a penny.'
He rattled the dice noisily, and cast them on the table, still holding the box tight over the ivory cubes.
The tempter prevailed; he had re-aroused the gambling fever in his host, who now advanced to the table and looked irresolutely on the upturned box.
'Done!' he cried suddenly. The other's fist lifted up; the cubes nestled close together showing dots two and one.
'Luck's turned,' said his guest philosophically, as he laid down the notes.
The other flung the dice swiftly on to the green board; the cubes rolled apart, then as they settled they showed six and five.
A spark of momentary fire flickered in the gambler's eye; he picked up the notes; then the frown came back to his brow; he shivered, looked at the clock, then, 'It's damned late,' he said, 'and if you don't want any more to drink we'd better go to bed.'