Not so: Dawkins won always, Mr. B. betting on his play, and giving him the very best of advice. At the end of the evening (which was abowt five o'clock the nex morning) they stopt. Master was counting up the skore on a card.
"Blewitt," says he, "I've been unlucky. I owe you—let me see—yes, five-and-forty pounds?"
"Five-and-forty," says Blewitt, "and no mistake!"
"I will give you a cheque," says the honrabble genlmn.
"Oh! don't mention it, my dear sir!" But master got a grate sheet of paper, and drew him a check on Messeers. Pump, Algit, and Co., his bankers.
"Now," says master, "I've got to settle with you, my dear Mr. Dawkins. If you had backd your luck, I should have owed you a very handsome sum of money. Voyons: thirteen points, at a pound—it is easy to calculate;" and, drawin out his puss, he clinked over the table 13 goolden suverings, which shon till they made my eyes wink.
So did pore Dawkinses, as he put out his hand, all trembling, and drew them in.
"Let me say," added master, "let me say (and I've had some little experience), that you are the very best écarté player with whom I ever sat down."
Dawkinses eyes glissened as he put the money up, and said, "Law, Deuceace, you flatter me."
Flatter him! I should think he did. It was the very thing which master ment.