“Won’t be a fair match, Mr Chorley,” said the dealer in hog-meat; “but since you propose it, if Mr Hatcher here—your name, sir, I believe?”
“Hatcher is my name,” replied the person addressed, the same who suggested whist.
“If Mr Hatcher here,” continued white-hat, “has no objection to the arrangement, I’ll not back out. Doggoned, if I do!”
“Oh! I don’t care,” said Hatcher, in a tone of reckless indifference, “anything to get up a game.”
Now, I was never fond of gambling, either amateur or otherwise, but circumstances had made me a tolerable whist-player, and I knew there were few who could beat me at it. If my partner knew the game as well, I felt certain we could not be badly damaged; and according to all accounts he understood it well. This was the opinion of one or two of the bystanders, who whispered in my ear that he was a “whole team” at whist.
Partly from the reckless mood I was in—partly that a secret purpose urged me on—a purpose which developed itself more strongly afterwards—and partly that I had been bantered, and, as it were, “cornered” into the thing, I consented to play—Chorley and I versus Hatcher and the pork-merchant.
We took our seats—partners vis-à-vis—the cards were shuffled, cut, dealt, and the game began.