Iver's eyes, thoughts, were distracted from the game. He lost money—five shillings, and Jonas urged him to play for higher stakes.
Then Mehetabel laid her needlework in her lap, and said—
"No, Iver, do not. You have played sufficiently, and have lost enough. Go home."
Jonas swore at her.
"What is that to you? We may amuse ourselves without your meddling. What odds to you if he loses, so long as I win. I am your husband and not he."
But Iver rose, and laughingly said:—
"Better go home with a wet jacket than with all the money run out of my pocket. Good-night, Bideabout."
"Have another shot?"
"Not another."
"She put you up to this," with a spiteful glance at Mehetabel.