“One of you back him!” persisted Geoffrey, appealing to the two choral gentlemen in the back-ground, with his temper fast rising to fever heat. The two choral gentlemen compared notes, as usual. “We weren’t born yesterday, Smith?” “Not if we know it, Jones.”
“Smith!” said Geoffrey, with a sudden assumption of politeness ominous of something unpleasant to come.
Smith said “Yes?”—with a smile.
“Jones!”
Jones said “Yes?”—with a reflection of Smith.
“You’re a couple of infernal cads—and you haven’t got a hundred pound between you!”
“Come! come!” said Arnold, interfering for the first time. “This is shameful, Geoffrey!”
“Why the”—(never mind what!)—“won’t they any of them take the bet?”
“If you must be a fool,” returned Arnold, a little irritably on his side, “and if nothing else will keep you quiet, I’ll take the bet.”
“An even hundred on the doctor!” cried Geoffrey. “Done with you!”