“The Fortunate Youth's,” says No. 2.
“Not so fortunate the last three nights. Luck confoundedly against him. Lost, last night, thirteen hundred to the table. Mr. Warrington been here to-day, John?”
“Mr. Warrington is in the house now, sir. In the little tea-room with Lord Castlewood since three o'clock. They are playing at piquet,” says John.
“What fun for Castlewood!” says No. 1, with a shrug.
The second gentleman growls out an execration. “Curse the fellow!” he says. “He has no right to be in this club at all. He doesn't pay if he loses. Gentlemen ought not to play with him. Sir Miles Warrington told me at court the other day, that Castlewood has owed him money on a bet these three years.”
“Castlewood,” says No. 1, “don't lose if he plays alone. A large company flurries him, you see—that's why he doesn't come to the table.” And the facetious gentleman grins, and shows all his teeth, polished perfectly clean.
“Let's go up and stop 'em,” growls No. 2.
“Why?” asks the other. “Much better look out a-window. Lamplighter going up the ladder—famous sport. Look at that old putt in the chair: did you ever see such an old quiz?”
“Who is that just gone out of the house? As I live, it's Fortunatus! He seems to have forgotten that his phaeton has been here, waiting all the time. I bet you two to one he has been losing to Castlewood.”
“Jack, do you take me to be a fool?” asks the one gentleman of the other. “Pretty pair of horses the youth has got. How he is flogging 'em!” And they see Mr. Warrington galloping up the street, and scared coachmen and chairmen clearing before him: presently my Lord Castlewood is seen to enter a chair, and go his way.