And Slowe stood gazing at the same object with his little faded
blue eyes, his disengaged hand in his breeches' pocket, and ever and
anon wetting his lips with his hot cordial, and assenting agreeably to
the major's conclusions.
'Seize ace! curse it!' cried Cluffe, who, I'm happy to say, had taken no
harm by his last night's wetting; 'another gammon, I'll lay you fifty.'
'Toole, I dare thay, will look in and tell us how poor Sturk goes on,'
said Puddock, playing his throw.
'Hang it, Puddock, mind your game--to be sure, he will. Cinque ace!
well, _curse_ it! the same throw over again! 'Tis too bad. I missed
taking you last time, with that stupid blot you've covered--and now, by
Jove, it ruins me. There's no playing when fellows are getting up every
minute to gape after doctors' coaches, and leaving the door open--hang
it, I've lost the game by it--gammoned twice already. 'Tis very
pleasant. I only wish when gentlemen interrupt play, they'd be good
enough to pay the bets.'
It was not much, about five shillings altogether, and little Puddock had
not often a run of luck.
'If you'd like to win it back, Captain Cluffe, I'll give you a chance,'
said O'Flaherty, who was tolerably sober.
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