Presently the Besotted Wretch got up and, taking the india-rubber rings out of the net with a trembling hand, began throwing them one at a time at the hooks on the board. The rest of the company watched him with much interest, laughing when he made a very bad shot and applauding when he scored.
“’E’s a bit orf tonight,” remarked Philpot aside to Easton, “but as a rule ’e’s a fair knockout at it. Throws a splendid ring.”
The Semi-drunk regarded the proceedings of the Besotted Wretch with an expression of profound contempt.
“You can’t play for nuts,” he said scornfully.
“Can’t I? I can play you, anyway.”
“Right you are! I’ll play you for drinks round!” cried the Semi-drunk.
For a moment the Besotted Wretch hesitated. He had not money enough to pay for drinks round. However, feeling confident of winning, he replied:
“Come on then. What’s it to be? Fifty up?”
“Anything you like! Fifty or a ’undred or a bloody million!”
“Better make it fifty for a start.”