“You’ll never put it over.”
“Sporting enough to lay odds on it, Marshy old dear?”
In all justice to Marshall Kent, it must be admitted that under normal conditions he would not have taken her up. But the restaurant happened to be one of the many which prided itself that prohibition meant nothing in its life and the silver flask reposing on Marshy’s hip had been refilled on frequent visits to a side chamber just off the main room. He looked out of the corner of an eye at Naomi stepping in where angels might fear to tread and the flushed, grudging admiration of gamester for gamester darted in the glance.
“You’re on!” he said.
“And you’ll keep off!” she urged, a bit breathless.
“Yes—I’ll give you ground. What stakes?”
“If I lose—”
“Yes?”
“We’ll make it a hundred perfectos, best brand.”
“Nice and impersonal!” observed Marshy, head to one side, now well into the game. “And if you win?”