“Well, go on.”
“A very particular hand.”
My grandfather’s eyes began to flash. The vast host of those who believe in playing “according to their hands” rose before his mind.
“Go on,” added he, controlling himself with an effort.
“Suppose there is a certain hand that a fellow—a hand that a certain fellow—for example—wants—wants—to get possession of.”
Charley winced, and Alice’s color rose in spite of her utmost efforts to look unconcerned.
“A hand that he wants to get possession of!” cried Mr. Whacker, with unspeakable amazement. “What gibberish is this? I was supposing all along that he had the hand!”
“No; but he wants it aw-ful-ly,” said Jones, with sepulchral solemnity.
Peal after peal of laughter arose, while Charley shuffled his cards with the vigor of desperation. Poor fellow, he had never been in love before, and—keen humorist that he was—he knew full well that no man could be in love without being at the same time ridiculous. My grandfather looked on, mystified but smiling. “This is one of your jokes,” said he, taking Billy by both ears.
“On the contrary, it is a case—ouch!—of the very deadest earnest that I have ever—smi-ling-ly beheld. But, honestly, Uncle Tom, suppose there was a suit—a suit, mind you—”