“It’s a fool’s game, I tell you,” said Simpson.
“Well, you ’elped me start it,” said the other. “You’re afraid, that’s what you are, afraid. You can let the boy go down there, but when it comes to yourselves you turn chicken-’arted.”
“All right,” said Simpson recklessly, “let Bill ’ave ’is way; out, cookie.”
Sorely against his better sense the cook complied, and drew a ten; Ned, after much argument, cut and drew seven; Simpson, with a king in his fist, leaned back on the locker and fingered his beard nonchalantly. “Go on, Bill,” he said, “see what you can do.”
Bill took the pack and shuffled it. “I orter be able to beat seven,” he said slowly. He handed the pack to Ned, drew a card, and the other three sat back and laughed boisterously.
“Three!” said Simpson. “Bravo, Bill! Ill write your letter for you; he’d know your writing. What shall I say?”
“Say what you like,” retorted Bill, breathing hard as he thought of the hold.
He sat back, sneering disdainfully, as the other three merrily sat down to compose his letter, replying only by a contemptuous silence when Simpson asked him whether he wanted any kisses put in. When the letter was handed over for his inspection he only made one remark.
“I thought you could write better than that, George,” he said haughtily.
“I’m writing it for you,” said Simpson.