“From all which,” retorted Watty, “you bring forward strong proof that your present growling at bad luck is most unphilosophic, you cross-grained philosopher.”
“Not at all,” returned Jack. “The captain’s principles may, or may not be correct. The mere statement of them does not prove that my ill luck just now is going to result in good. But the worst of it is, that during the time of our good fortune, I had been hoarding up in order to be able to send money to my poor father, and now it has all melted away.”
“I’m sorry for you, Jack,” said Watty, “but that is not the worst of it to my mind, bad though it be. What grieves me most is, that my dear friend and chum, Ben Trench, is surely losing his health under the strain of anxiety and hard work. You see, he is not gifted with the gutta-percha feelings and cast-iron frame of Philosopher Jack, neither has he the happy-go-lucky spirit and tough little corpus of Watty Wilkins, so that it tells on him heavily—very heavily.”
Poor Watty said this half jestingly, yet with such a look of genuine feeling that Jack forgot his own troubles for the moment.
“Something must be done,” he said, gazing with a concerned look at the fire. “Did you observe that man Conway last night up at the store?”
“Yes; what of him?”
“He staked largely at the gaming-table last night—and won.”
Little Wilkins glanced quickly in his friend’s face. “Jack,” he said, with a look and tone of earnestness quite unusual to him, “we must not think of that. Whatever straits we are reduced to, we must not gamble—I repeat, we must not!”
“Why not, little man?” asked Jack, with an amused smile at what he considered an uncalled-for burst of seriousness.
“Because it is dishonourable,” said Wilkins, promptly.