“Our luck,” said the faithful Ricardo. “Don't say a word against that. It might spoil the run of it.”
“You are a superstitious beggar. No, I won't say anything against it.”
“That's right, sir. Don't you even think lightly of it. Luck's not to be played with.”
“Yes, luck's a delicate thing,” assented Mr. Jones in a dreamy whisper.
A short silence ensued, which Ricardo ended in a discreet and tentative voice.
“Talking of luck, I suppose he could be made to take a hand with you, sir—two-handed picket or ekkarty, you being seedy and keeping indoors—just to pass the time. For all we know, he may be one of them hot ones once they start—”
“Is it likely?” came coldly from the principal. “Considering what we know of his history—say with his partner.”
“True, sir. He's a cold-blooded beast; a cold-blooded, inhuman—”
“And I'll tell you another thing that isn't likely. He would not be likely to let himself be stripped bare. We haven't to do with a young fool that can be led on by chaff or flattery, and in the end simply overawed. This is a calculating man.”
Ricardo recognized that clearly. What he had in his mind was something on a small scale, just to keep the enemy busy while he, Ricardo, had time to nose around a bit.