“Get him into a scrape, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps we can think of some way. If you haven’t anything better to do, come up to my room and play cards.”
“I don’t mind.”
Soon afterward the two were sitting at a small table in Congreve’s bedroom at the hotel, playing poker.
This is essentially a gambling game, and for that reason it was a special favorite with James Congreve. He was much more than a match for Philip, whom he had initiated into the mysteries of the game.
“How much do I owe you, Congreve?” asked Philip, as they sat down to their unprofitable employment.
“I don’t know, exactly; I’ve got an account somewhere,” answered Congreve, carelessly.
“It must be as much as ten dollars,” said Philip, rather uneasily. “Somehow, you always have more luck at the cards than I do.”
“Luck will change in time. Besides, I am in no hurry for the money.”