CHAPTER XII.
The Honorable Louis Wesson, meanwhile, having left the water side, lita cigarette, and proceeded to make a moody tour of the grounds. Hefelt aggrieved with the world. One is never at one's best and sunniestwhen a rival has performed a brilliant and successful piece ofcutting-out work beneath one's very eyes. Something of a jaundicedtinge stains one's outlook on life in such circumstances. Mr. Wessondid not pretend to himself that he was violently in love with Molly.But he certainly admired her, and intended, unless he changed his mindlater on, to marry her.
He walked, drawing thoughtfully at his cigarette. The more he reviewedthe late episode, the less he liked it. He had not seen Jimmy putMolly in the canoe, and her departure seemed to him a deliberatedesertion. She had promised to play tennis with him, and at the lastmoment she had gone off with this fellow Pitt. Who _was_ Pitt? Hewas always in the way--shoving himself in.
At this moment, a large, warm raindrop fell on his hand. From thebushes all round came an ever-increasing patter. The sky was leaden.
He looked round him for shelter. He had reached the rose garden in thecourse of his perambulations. At the far end was a summerhouse. Heturned up his coat collar and ran.
As he drew near, he heard a slow and dirgelike whistling proceedingfrom the interior. Plunging in out of breath, just as the delugebegan, he found Spennie seated at the little wooden table with anearnest expression on his face. The table was covered with cards.
"How Jim took exercise," said Spennie, glancing up. "Hello, Wesson. ByJove, isn't it coming down!"
With which greeting he turned his attention to his cards once more. Hetook one from the pack in his left hand, looked at it, hesitated for amoment, as if doubtful whereabouts on the table it would produce themost artistic effect; and finally put it down, face upward.
Then he moved another card from the table, and put it on top of theother one. Throughout the performance he whistled painfully.
Wesson regarded him with disfavor. "That looks damned exciting," hesaid. He reserved his more polished periods for use in public. "Whatare you playing at?"
"Wha-a-a'?" said Spennie abstractedly, dealing another card.
"Oh, don't sit there looking like a frog," said Wesson irritably."_Talk_, man."
"What's the matter? What do you want? Hello, I've done it. No, Ihaven't. No luck at all. Haven't brought up a demon all day."
He gathered up the cards, and began to shuffle. "Ah, lov'," he sangsentimentally, with a vacant eye on the roof of the summerhouse,"could I bot tell thee how moch----"
"Oh, stop it!" said Wesson.
"You seem depressed, laddie. What's the matter? Ah, lov', could I bottell thee----"
"Spennie, who's this fellow Pitt?"
"Jimmy Pitt? Pal of mine. One of the absolute. Ay, nutty to the core,good my lord. Ah, lov', could I bot tell----"
"Where did you meet him?"
"London. Why?"
"He and your sister seem pretty good friends."
"I shouldn't wonder. Knew each other out in America. Bridge, bridge,ber-ridge, a capital game for two. Shuffle and cut and deal away, andlet the lo-oser pay-ah. Ber-ridge----"
"Well, let's have a game, then. Anything for something to do. Cursethis rain! We shall be cooped up here till dinner at this rate."
"Double dummy's a frightfully rotten game," said Spennie. "Ever playedpicquet? I could teach it to you in five minutes."
A look of almost awe came into Wesson's face, the look of one who seesa miracle performed before his eyes. For years he had been using allthe large stock of diplomacy at his command to induce callow youths toplay picquet with him and here was this admirable young man, thispearl among young men, positively offering to teach him. It was toomuch happiness. What had he done to deserve this? He felt as atoil-worn lion might have felt if an antelope, instead of making itscustomary bee line for the horizon, had expressed a friendly hope thatit would be found tender and inserted its head between his jaws.
"I--it's very good of you. I shouldn't mind being shown the idea."
He listened attentively while Spennie explained at some length theprinciples which govern the game of picquet. Every now and then heasked a question. It was evident that he was beginning to grasp theidea of the game.
"_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 contestbetween teacher and student, won the first two hands. Wesson won thenext.
"I've got the hang of it all right, now," he said complacently. "It'sa simple sort of game. Make it more exciting, don't you think, if weplayed for something?"
"All right," said Spennie slowly, "if you like."
He would not have suggested it himself, but after all, hang it, if theman simply _asked_ for it--It was not his fault if the winning of ahand should have given the fellow the impression that he knew all thatthere was to be known about picquet. Of course, picquet was a gamewhere skill was practically bound to win. But--After all, Wesson hadplenty 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 havecorrected the novice's notion that ten shillings a hundred was fairlymoderate. He knew that it was possible for a poor player to lose fourhundred points in a twenty-minute game, and usual for him to lose twohundred. But he let the thing go.
"Very well," he said.
Twenty minutes later, Mr. Wesson was looking somewhat ruefully at thescore sheet. "I owe you eighteen shillings," he said. "Shall I payyou, 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 youhaven'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 atthis game."
"My dear Spennie," said Wesson stiffly, "I can look after myself,thanks. Of course, if you think you are risking too much, by allmeans--"
"Oh, if _you_ don't mind," said Spennie, outraged, "I'm only toofrightfully pleased. Only, remember I warned you."
"I'll bear it in mind. By the way, before we start, care to make it asovereign a hundred?"
Spennie could not afford to play picquet for a sovereign a hundred, oranything like it; but after his adversary's innuendo it was impossiblefor a young gentleman of spirit to admit the humiliating fact. Henodded.
* * * * *
"It's about time, I fancy," said Mr. Wesson, looking at his watch anhour 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 youhad."
They went out into the rose garden.
"Jolly everything smells after the rain," said Mr. Wesson. "Freshenedeverything up."
Spennie did not appear to have noticed it. He seemed to be thinking ofsomething else. His air was pensive and abstracted.
The Gem Collector Page 12
