Hand joined in hand; then Lycon ordered the Oriental to “fetch the noble Athenian some good Thasian wine.”
“You will join me?” urged the orator.
“Alas! no. I am still in training. Nothing but cheese and porridge till after the victory to-morrow; but then, by Castor, I’ll enjoy ‘the gentleman’s disease’—a jolly drunkenness.”
“Then you are sure of victory to-morrow?”
“Good Democrates, what god has tricked you into believing your fine Athenian has a chance?”
“I have seven minæ staked on Glaucon.”
“Seven staked in the presence of your friends; how many in their absence?”
Democrates reddened. He was glad the room was dark. “I am not here to quarrel about the pentathlon,” he said emphatically.
“Oh, very well. Leave your dear sparrow to my gentle hands.” The Spartan’s huge paws closed significantly: “Here’s the wine. Sit and drink. And you, Hiram, get to your corner.”
The Oriental silently squatted in the gloom, the gleam of his beady eyes just visible. Lycon sat on a stool beside his guest, his Cyclops-like limbs sprawling down upon the floor. Scarred and brutish, indeed, was his face, one ear missing, the other beaten flat by boxing gloves; but Democrates had a distinct feeling that under his battered visage and wiry black hair lurked greater penetration of human motive and more ability to play therewith than the chance observer might allow. The Athenian deliberately waited his host’s first move.