“Him and all his works, my lord!” said Mr. Sampson, with a bow.
Harry was highly indignant at this allusion to his mother. “I'll tell you what, cousin Will,” he said, “I am in the habit of managing my own affairs in my own way, without asking any lady to arrange them for me. And I'm used to make my own bets upon my own judgment, and don't need any relations to select them for me, thank you. But as I am your guest, and, no doubt, you want to show me hospitality, I'll take your bet—there. And so Done and Done.”
“Done,” says Will, looking askance.
“Of course it is the regular odds that's in the paper which you give me, cousin?”
“Well, no, it isn't,” growled Will. “The odds are five to four, that's the fact, and you may have 'em, if you like.”
“Nay, cousin, a bet is a bet; and I take you, too, Mr. Sampson.”
“Three to one against Jason. I lay it. Very good,” says Mr. Sampson.
“Is it to be ponies too, Mr. Chaplain?” asks Harry with a superb air, as if he had Lombard Street in his pocket.
“No, no. Thirty to ten. It is enough for a poor priest to win.”
“Here goes a great slice out of my quarter's hundred,” thinks Harry. “Well, I shan't let these Englishmen fancy that I am afraid of them. I didn't begin, but for the honour of Old Virginia I won't go back.”