“Oh, of course!” sneered Osmond. “It’s not to be expected that you would say anything else.”
“Did you see the stroke, Kester?” appealed Lionel.
“Certainly I did. You played with your own ball and not with Mr. Osmond’s.”
“Of course, Kester is bound to back up all we say! Our bankrupt relation can’t afford to do otherwise. He has ten pounds on the game, and——”
“By Heaven, Osmond!” burst out Mr. St. George. Lionel again laid his hand on his cousin’s shoulder.
“Mr. Osmond is my guest,” he said, impressively. “In a moment of temper he has made use of certain expressions which he will be the first to regret to-morrow. Let us look upon the game as a drawn one, and, if need be, discuss it fully over breakfast in the morning.”
“You have an uncommonly nice way of slipping out of a difficulty, Dering, I must confess. But it won’t wash with me. The moment I find a man’s not acting on the square, I brand him before the world as a cheat and a blackleg.”
“Your language is very strong, Mr. Osmond.”
“Not stronger than the case demands.”
“I assure you again, on my word of honour, that you are mistaken in saying that I played with the wrong ball.”