"It's just as well," he declared quietly.
Heywood loosed a great breath, a sigh of vast relief.
"My word!" he cried, grinning. "So you're there, too, eh? You young
Sly-boots! If you're another expert--Bravo! We'll beat him at his own
game! Hoist with his own what-d'-ye-call-it! I'd give anything"--He
thumped the table, and pitched the cards broadcast, like an explosion of
confetti, in a little carnival of glee. "You old Sly-boots!--But are you
sure? He's quick as lightning."
"I am not afraid," replied Rudolph, modestly. He trained his young
moustache upward with steady fingers, and sat very quiet, thinking long
thoughts. A quaint smile played about his eyes.
"Good for you!" said Heywood. "Now let him come, as the Lord Mayor said
of the hare. What sport! With an even chance--And what a load off
one's mind!"
He moved away to the window, as though searching for air. Instead of
moonlight, without, there swam the blue mist of dawn.
"Not a word must ever reach old Gilly," he mused. "Do you hear, Nesbit?"
"If you think," retorted the clerk, stiffly, "I don't know the proper
course of be'aviour! Not likely!"
The tall silhouette in the window made no reply, but stood grumbling
privately: "A club! Yes, where we drink out of jam-pots--dead cushions,
dead balls--no veranda--fellow that soils the inside of his cuffs first!
We're a pack of beach-combers.
Pages:
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116