“He can't contain his drink—that's clear.” The manager glared his disgust and wrath. “If he raises a hand to Peter, so help me, I'll give him a licking myself, the little overgrown cad!”
The pearl-buyer pulled the pegs out of the cribbage board on which he was scoring and sat back. He had won the third game. He glanced across to Eddy Little, saying:
“I'm ready for the bridge, now.”
“I wouldn't be a quitter,” Deacon snarled.
“Oh, really, I'm tired of the game,” Peter Gee assured him with his habitual quietness.
“Come on and be game,” Deacon bullied. “One more. You can't take my money that way. I'm out fifteen pounds. Double or quits.”
McMurtrey was about to interpose, but Grief restrained him with his eyes.
“If it positively is the last, all right,” said Peter Gee, gathering up the cards. “It's my deal, I believe. As I understand it, this final is for fifteen pounds. Either you owe me thirty or we quit even?”
“That's it, chappie. Either we break even or I pay you thirty.”
“Getting blooded, eh?” Grief remarked, drawing up a chair.