Tom: Bid up, bid up! Bid a little seven on hearts?
Mrs. Arty: Just for that I will bid seven on hearts, smarty!
Tom: Oh, how we will squat you!… What you bidding, Wrenn?
Behind Mr. Wrenn, Nelly Croubel whispered to him: “Bid seven on no suit. You’ve got the joker.” Her delicate forefinger, its nail shining, was pointing at a curious card in his hand.
“Seven nosut,” he mumbled.
“Eight hearts,” snapped Miss Proudfoot.
Nelly drew up a chair behind Mr. Wrenn’s. He listened to her soft explanations with the desperate respect and affection which a green subaltern would give to a general in battle.
Tom and he won the hand. He glanced back at Nelly with awe, then clutched his new hand, fearfully, dizzily, staring at it as though it might conceal one of those malevolent deceivers of which Nelly had just warned him—a left bower.
“Good! Spades—see,” said Nelly.
Fifteen minutes later Mr. Wrenn felt that Tom was hoping he would lead a club. He played one, and the whole table said: “That’s right. Fine!”