Wycherley, a modern Dick Swiveller in all his rattle-brained, devil-may-care ways, shrugs his shoulders.
“If the fair goddess refuses me her favor, I’ll have to carry it over to the next day.”
“Your creditors are very obliging.”
“Pshaw! don’t you understand, old fellow? I said I was an apprentice; I’m making a deep study of this grain gambling on ’Change. It’s my intention to devote myself to it after I’ve got the secret of success down fine. I’m only betting with myself, you see. Some days I’m depressed by heavy losses; then again I’m on the top of the swim—my name famous as a high-roller. You don’t know how exciting it is to take up an afternoon paper in a delightful state of uncertainty as to whether you have won or lost a fortune.”
“Ahem! it must be, indeed. See here, how long have you been at this odd game?”
“About three weeks.”
“Doing a big business, I presume?”
Claude thrusts his thumbs in the armholes of his vest, and swells with importance.
“I’ve handled millions, my dear fellow; made some of the boldest moves ever known; expect to be the Napoleon of the wheat pit ere long.”
“Well, how do you stand?” continues Craig, thoroughly interested in this queer freak of his entertaining companion.