“I’ll lay you sixpence, though,” cried Charles, eagerly, “that she’ll stir the king, if she touches that knave—I’ll lay you a shilling.”
“Done! done!” cried Mr. Vincent.
“Done! done!” cried the boy, stretching out his hand, but his father caught it.
“Softly! softly, Charles!—No betting, if you please, my dear. Done and done sometimes ends in—undone.”
“It was my fault—it was I who was in the wrong,” cried Vincent immediately.
“I am sure you are in the right, now,” said Mr. Percival; “and, what is better than my saying so, Miss Portman thinks so, as her smile tells me.”
“You moved, Miss Portman!” cried Charles:—“Oh, indeed! the king’s head stirred, the very instant papa spoke. I knew it was impossible that you could get that knave clear off without shaking the king. Now, papa, only look how they were balanced.”
“I grant you,” said Mr. Vincent, “I should have made an imprudent bet. So it is well I made none; for now I see the chances were ten to one, twenty to one, a hundred to one against me.”
“It does not appear to me to be a matter of chance,” said Mr. Percival. “This is a game of address, not chance, and that is the reason I like it.”
“Oh, papa! Oh, Miss Portman! look how nicely these are balanced. There! my breath has set them in motion. Look, they shake, shake, shake, like the great rocking-stones at Brimham Crags.”