“Fifty-two—eighty-one,” called St. George. “How does your ten pounds look now, eh?” asked Osmond, with a chuckle.
“Not very rosy, I must confess,” said Kester, with a shrug of his shoulders, and an appealing glance at his cousin.
“I hope you are prepared to pay up if you lose,” said Osmond, insolently.
Kester started to his feet, but Lionel laid a hand on his shoulder.
“The game is not lost yet, Mr. Osmond,” he said, coldly, but courteously.
“I guess it’s in a dying state as far as you’re concerned,” said Osmond, coughing his little effeminate cough.
Lionel played and made a brilliant break of thirty.
“Eighty-one—eighty-two,” called Kester, and there was a triumphant ring in his voice as he did so.
Osmond, white with the rage he could not hide, said nothing. He laid down his cigar, chalked his cue carefully, played, and missed.
“Just like my luck!” he cried, with an oath. “Dering, you might give a fellow something decent to smoke,” he added, as he flung his cigar into the grate.