“A hundred?”
“Double it if you like.”
“You’re on.” Eyre, slowly swallowing the last of a brandy-and-soda, rose, reaching into his pocket.
“Not necessary, between gentlemen,” said Ely Ives with a gesture just a little too suave.
“Ah, yes,” muttered the lawyer at Banneker’s side. “Between gentlemen. Eck-xactly.”
Pursuant to instructions, Eyre stood with his feet a few inches apart and his eyes closed. “At the word, you bring your heels together. Click! And you keep your balance. If you can. For the two hundred. Any one else want in?... No?... Ready, Mr. Eyre. Now! Hep!”
The heels clicked, but with a stuttering, weak impact. Eyre, bulky and powerful, staggered, toppled to the left.
“Hold up there!” His neighbor propped him, and was clutched in his grasp.
“Hands off!” said Eyre thickly. “Sorry, Banks! Let me try that again. Oh, the bet’s yours, Mr. Ives,” he added, as that keen gambler began to enter a protest. “Send you a check in the morning—if that’ll be all right.”
Herbert Cressey, hand in pocket, was at his side instantly. “Pay him now, Del,” he said in a tone which did not conceal his contemptuous estimate of Ives. “Here’s money, if you haven’t it.”