“Oh, bother cards,” was the reply; “let’s have a ramble out of doors for a change.”
“Hullo! Whip, how is it you’re down on cards?” said the Field-Marshal. “I thought you always won.”
There was something not very nice in the tone of the cadaverous man of war which roused the ire of the virtuous Whipcord.
“What do you mean, you—who says I always win at cards?”
“You generally win when I’m playing against you,” said the Field-Marshal.
“Look here,” said Whipcord, very red in the face, and chewing his straw in an agitated manner, “do you mean to insinuate I cheat at cards, eh, you—?”
“I never said anything of the kind,” replied the Field-marshal; “I said you generally won, that’s all. What’s the use of making an ass of yourself?”
I began to perceive by this time that Mr Whipcord was excited by something more than the Field-Marshal’s talk. The fact was, he had drunk too much, and that being so, it was worse than useless to reason with him.
“Who says I generally win at cards?” shouted he. “I’ll fight any one that says so: if you like, I’ll take the lot of you.”
The laugh which greeted this valiant challenge only enraged the excited youth the more.