"Twelve o'clock, gentlemen," the servant said at the door.
And when Fenton began his Sunday by winning the pot on his straight
flush, he found himself more than sixty dollars to the good on his
evening's work.
"You've regularly bled me, Fenton," Snaffle observed with much
jocularity, as the players came out of the club house. "I've hardly got
a car fare left to take me home. I'm afraid the St. Filipe is a den of
thieves."
"I don't mind lending you a car fare, Mr. Snaffle," the artist
returned, endeavoring to speak as pleasantly as if he did not object to
the familiarity of the other's address. "But don't abuse the club."
"I think I'll go to church," Dr. Wilson said with a yawn. "It must be
most time."
"Church-going," Fenton returned, sententiously, "is small beer for
small souls."
"There, Fenton," retorted Rangely, as at this minute they came to the
corner where they separated, "don't feel obliged to try to be clever.
You can't do it at this time of night."
Snaffle continued his walk with the artist almost to Fenton's door,
although the latter suspected that it was out of his companion's way.
Arthur was willing, however, to give the loser the compensation of his
society as a return for the greenbacks in his pocket, and his natural
acuteness was so far from being as active as usual that when he found
Mr. Snaffle speaking of Princeton Platinum stock he did not suspect
that he was being angled for in turn, and that the gambling for the
evening was not yet completed.
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