“I suppose so.”
“You’re too old a sport to get bluffed into a bet of that size.”
“Yes, I ought not to have done it.”
“There may be some way out of it yet.”
“I’ll try and find some way,” said the other, with a scowl as he turned away.
After leaving the place the sport, whom the proprietor addressed as Brower, took his way to a messenger office, sent a boy out with a note, and then hastened to a fashionable saloon in the neighborhood.
“Now, then,” thought Nick, as he took a seat not far from him out of the range of his sight, “I’ll soon find out[{33}] how many different games they are playing over at the stables.”
The sport settled himself down behind a paper as though he had some time to wait.
So Nick left him there, and passed out into the street, and ten minutes later, disguised as a howling swell, sauntered into the place, stared about through his one eye glass, and finally took a seat near the waiting man.
At the end of half an hour the sport became restless, and began walking nervously up and down the room.