“Rat me,” he groaned, “there's the end of a hundred.”
He toyed sorrowfully with the red ribbon in his black hair, and Crispin, seeing that no fresh stake was forthcoming, made shift to rise. But the coxcomb detained him.
“Tarry, sir,” he cried, “I've not yet done. 'Slife, we'll make a night of it.”
He drew a ring from his finger, and with a superb gesture of disdain pushed it across the board.
“What'll ye stake?” And, in the same breath, “Boy, another stoup,” he cried.
Crispin eyed the gem carelessly.
“Twenty Caroluses,” he muttered.
“Rat me, sir, that nose of yours proclaims you a jew, without more. Say twenty-five, and I'll cast.”
With a tolerant smile, and the shrug of a man to whom twenty-five or a hundred are of like account, Crispin consented. They threw; Crispin passed and won.
“What'll ye stake?” cried Mr. Foster, and a second ring followed the first.