Part 16 (1/2)

”_What_ exactly is repicquing?” he asked, as Spennie paused.

”It's like this,” said Spennie, returning to his lecture.

”Yes, I see now,” said the neophyte.

They began playing. Spennie, as was only to be expected in a contest between teacher and student, won the first two hands. Wesson won the next.

”I've got the hang of it all right, now,” he said complacently. ”It's a simple sort of game. Make it more exciting, don't you think, if we played for something?”

”All right,” said Spennie slowly, ”if you like.”

He would not have suggested it himself, but after all, hang it, if the man simply _asked_ for it--It was not his fault if the winning of a hand should have given the fellow the impression that he knew all that there was to be known about picquet. Of course, picquet was a game where skill was practically bound to win. But--After all, Wesson had plenty of money. He could afford it.

”All right,” said Spennie again. ”How much?”

”Something fairly moderate. Ten bob a hundred?”

There is no doubt that Spennie ought at this suggestion to have corrected the novice's notion that ten s.h.i.+llings a hundred was fairly moderate. He knew that it was possible for a poor player to lose four hundred points in a twenty-minute game, and usual for him to lose two hundred. But he let the thing go.

”Very well,” he said.

Twenty minutes later, Mr. Wesson was looking somewhat ruefully at the score sheet. ”I owe you eighteen s.h.i.+llings,” he said. ”Shall I pay you, now, or shall we settle up in a lump after we've finished?”

”What about stopping now?” said Spennie. ”It's quite fine out.”

”No, let's go on. I've nothing to do till dinner, and I'm sure you haven't.”

Spennie's conscience made one last effort. ”You'd much better stop, you know, Wesson, really,” he said. ”You can lose a frightful lot at this game.”

”My dear Spennie,” said Wesson stiffly, ”I can look after myself, thanks. Of course, if you think you are risking too much, by all means--”

”Oh, if _you_ don't mind,” said Spennie, outraged, ”I'm only too frightfully pleased. Only, remember I warned you.”

”I'll bear it in mind. By the way, before we start, care to make it a sovereign a hundred?”

Spennie could not afford to play picquet for a sovereign a hundred, or anything like it; but after his adversary's innuendo it was impossible for a young gentleman of spirit to admit the humiliating fact. He nodded.

”It's about time, I fancy,” said Mr. Wesson, looking at his watch an hour later, ”that we were going in to dress for dinner.”

Spennie made no reply. He was wrapped in thought.

”Let's see, that's twenty pounds you owe me, isn't it?” continued Mr.

Wesson. ”No hurry, of course. Any time you like. Shocking bad luck you had.”

They went out into the rose garden.

”Jolly everything smells after the rain,” said Mr. Wesson. ”Freshened everything up.”