The Way We Live Now, Anthony Trollope [good story books to read .txt] 📗

would expose the transaction to the whole room; but he was afraid, thinking that Miles Grendall was a more popular man than himself.

It was Sunday night; but not the less were the gamblers assembled in the card-room at about eleven. Dolly Longestaffe was there, and with him the two lords, and Sir Felix, and Miles Grendall of course, and, I regret to say, a much better man than any of them, Paul Montague. Sir Felix had doubted much as to the propriety of joining the party. What was the use of playing with a man who seemed by general consent to be liberated from any obligation to pay? But then if he did not play with him, where should he find another gambling table? They began with whist, but soon laid that aside and devoted themselves to loo. The least respected man in that confraternity was Grendall, and yet it was in compliance with the persistency of his suggestion that they gave up the nobler game. “Let’s stick to whist; I like cutting out,” said Grasslough. “It’s much more jolly having nothing to do now and then; one can always bet,” said Dolly shortly afterwards. “I hate loo,” said Sir Felix in answer to a third application. “I like whist best,” said Nidderdale, “but I’ll play anything anybody likes;⁠—pitch and toss if you please.” But Miles Grendall had his way, and loo was the game.

At about two o’clock Grendall was the only winner. The play had not been very high, but nevertheless he had won largely. Whenever a large pool had collected itself he swept it into his garners. The men opposed to him hardly grudged him this stroke of luck. He had hitherto been unlucky; and they were able to pay him with his own paper, which was so valueless that they parted with it without a pang. Even Dolly Longestaffe seemed to have a supply of it. The only man there not so furnished was Montague, and while the sums won were quite small he was allowed to pay with cash. But to Sir Felix it was frightful to see ready money going over to Miles Grendall, as under no circumstances could it be got back from him. “Montague,” he said, “just change these for the time. I’ll take them back, if you still have them when we’ve done.” And he handed a lot of Miles’s paper across the table. The result of course would be that Felix would receive so much real money, and that Miles would get back more of his own worthless paper. To Montague it would make no difference, and he did as he was asked;⁠—or rather was preparing to do so, when Miles interfered. On what principle of justice could Sir Felix come between him and another man? “I don’t understand this kind of thing,” he said. “When I win from you, Carbury, I’ll take my I.O.U.s, as long as you have any.”

“By George, that’s kind.”

“But I won’t have them handed about the table to be changed.”

“Pay them yourself, then,” said Sir Felix, laying a handful down on the table.

“Don’t let’s have a row,” said Lord Nidderdale.

“Carbury is always making a row,” said Grasslough.

“Of course he is,” said Miles Grendall.

“I don’t make more row than anybody else; but I do say that as we have such a lot of these things, and as we all know that we don’t get cash for them as we want it, Grendall shouldn’t take money and walk off with it.”

“Who is walking off?” said Miles.

“And why should you be entitled to Montague’s money more than any of us?” asked Grasslough.

The matter was debated, and was thus decided. It was not to be allowed that Miles’s paper should be negotiated at the table in the manner that Sir Felix had attempted to adopt. But Mr. Grendall pledged his honour that when they broke up the party he would apply any money that he might have won to the redemption of his I.O.U.s, paying a regular percentage to the holders of them. The decision made Sir Felix very cross. He knew that their condition at six or seven in the morning would not be favourable to such commercial accuracy⁠—which indeed would require an accountant to effect it; and he felt sure that Miles, if still a winner, would in truth walk off with the ready money.

For a considerable time he did not speak, and became very moderate in his play, tossing his cards about, almost always losing, but losing a minimum, and watching the board. He was sitting next to Grendall, and he thought that he observed that his neighbour moved his chair farther and farther away from him, and nearer to Dolly Longestaffe, who was next to him on the other side. This went on for an hour, during which Grendall still won⁠—and won heavily from Paul Montague. “I never saw a fellow have such a run of luck in my life,” said Grasslough. “You’ve had two trumps dealt to you every hand almost since we began!”

“Ever so many hands I haven’t played at all,” said Miles.

“You’ve always won when I’ve played,” said Dolly. “I’ve been looed every time.”

“You oughtn’t to begrudge me one run of luck, when I’ve lost so much,” said Miles, who, since he began, had destroyed paper counters of his own making, supposed to represent considerably above £1,000, and had also⁠—which was of infinitely greater concern to him⁠—received an amount of ready money which was quite a godsend to him.

“What’s the good of talking about it?” said Nidderdale. “I hate all this row about winning and losing. Let’s go on, or go to bed.” The idea of going to bed was absurd. So they went on. Sir Felix, however, hardly spoke at all, played very little, and watched Miles Grendall without seeming to watch him. At last he felt certain that he saw a card go into the man’s sleeve, and remembered at the moment that the winner had owed his success to