"How much ha' you lost, Alton?"
"Nothing much Tony, only ten or so."
"And you, Alvaston?"
"Nay I'm 'n odd guinea or so t' th' good, s' far," yawned his lordship.
"May I perish," exclaimed Mr. Marchdale, "but you and Dalroyd have all the luck, as usual!"
"I—I in luck?" exclaimed Alvaston, his sleepy eyes wider than usual, "stint y'r dreams and babble not, Tony! Whoe'er saw me win? Never had any measure o' luck since I was breeched, or before. And talking o' luck, Major, how goeth Merivale, how's poor Tom since his spill yesterday?"
"Bruised and sore, sir, but no worse, thank God. He'll be about again in a day or so."
"Tom rides like—like the devil, strike me blue if he don't!" said the Marquis.
"And just as reckless!" added Dalroyd.
"Aye, but here was none o' that. His horse balked a fence, rapped and went down with him. Brute'll kill him yet, damme if he don't!"