“You shall have the money, Kingsley.”
“Stay! Perhaps I may never pay it you again.”
“I shall regret that, for I can ill afford to lose any such sum; but, even to know that would not prevent me from lending you in your need. It is enough that you are in want. You tell me you are.”
“I am; but my wants are not such as a pure moralist, however strong might be his friendship, would be disposed to gratify. I shall stake that money on the roll of the dice.”
“Impossible! You do not game!”
“True as a gospel! Hark you, Clifford, and save us the homily. I am a ruined man—ruined by the d—-d dice and the deceptive cards. I shall pay you back the hundred dollars, but I shall have precious little after that.”
“But, surely, I was not misinformed. You were rich a few years ago.”
“A few months! But the case is the same. I am poor now. My riches had wings. I am reduced to my tail-feathers; but I will flourish with these to the last. I have fallen among thieves. They have clipped my plumage—close! close! They have stripped me of everything, but some small matters which, when sold, will just suffice to get me horse or halter. Some dirty acres in Alabama, are all I absolutely have remaining of any real value. But there is one thing that I may have, if I stake boldly for it.”
“You will only lose again. The hope of a gamester rises, in due degree, with the increasing lightness of his pockets.”
“Do not mistake me. I hope nothing from your hundred dollars; indeed, fifty will answer. I propose to employ it only as a pretext. I expect to lose it, and lose it this very night. But it will give me an opportunity to ascertain what I have suspected—too late, indeed, to save myself—that I have been the victim of false dice and figured cards. You say you will let me have the money—will you go with me—Will you see me through?”