With a bound the scrivener seized the stone ball. He swung it around his head two or three times, spinning on his heel. He drew far back and came forward on the run. He let out a warning shout. He was about to make the heave when to the amazement of all, his feet slid from under him. The stone rolled harmlessly to the side of the green. The scrivener fell on his back and his heels kicked in the air.
It was a ridiculous situation of course. In the beginning I was burning with anger that he should make such a show of himself. But when I considered the nature of the man, his unexpected whims and fancies, I knew that he was playing a rôle that would be wise enough in the end.
When he arose he looked crestfallen. With a serious expression on his face he brushed the dirt away from his clothes. He even growled under his breath at his poor luck.
Nicole was standing with his arms folded across his chest as proudly as though he were already the victor. He took forth his purse once more and held it dangling in his fingers. With a taunting sneer he winked at me and then turned to the scrivener.
“Another ten?” he asked with raised brows.
“You must be a rich man,” the scrivener replied. “Are you a merchant that you have so much to waste?”
“I make my living from such as you,” Nicole answered, “——who think they can play—and can’t!”
At this cut the scrivener flew into a rage. He threw his arms above his head and paced up and down. He jerked his fists convulsively.
“It was a slip,” he cried. “Only a slip. I know I can do better than that.” He spat upon the ground as though he had finally come to a resolution.
“Henri!” he cried. “Twenty crowns more!” Then in a flash to Nicole, “Have you the courage?” he demanded.