"Well, let's have a game, then. Anything for something to do. Curse this rain! We shall be cooped up here till dinner at this rate."
"Double dummy's a frightfully rotten game," said Spennie. "Ever played picquet? I could teach it to you in five minutes."
A look of almost awe came into Wesson's face, the look of one who sees a miracle performed before his eyes. For years he had been using all the large stock of diplomacy at his command to induce callow youths to play picquet with him and here was this admirable young man, this pearl among young men, positively offering to teach him. It was too much happiness. What had he done to deserve this? He felt as a toil-worn lion might have felt if an antelope, instead of making its customary bee line for the horizon, had expressed a friendly hope that it would be found tender and inserted its head between his jaws.
"I—it's very good of you. I shouldn't mind being shown the idea."
He listened attentively while Spennie explained at some length the principles which govern the game of picquet. Every now and then he asked a question. It was evident that he was beginning to grasp the idea of the game.
"What exactly is repicquing?" he asked, as Spennie paused.
"It's like this," said Spennie, returning to his lecture.
"Yes, I see now," said the neophyte.
They began playing. Spennie, as was only to be expected in a contest between teacher and student, won the first two hands. Wesson won the next.
"I've got the hang of it all right, now," he said complacently. "It's a simple sort of game. Make it more exciting, don't you think, if we played for something?"