For
a moment he caught his breath. He had not a dollar in the world with
which to pay this sum. His only source of income was an allowance from
his grandfather, the monthly installment of which, drawn that very day,
he had just lost to McBane, before starting in upon the notes of hand.
"I'll give you your revenge another time," said McBane, as they rose.
"Luck is against you to-night, and I'm unwilling to take advantage of a
clever young fellow like you. Meantime," he added, tossing the notes of
hand carelessly on a bureau, "don't worry about these bits of paper.
Such small matters shouldn't cut any figure between friends; but if you
are around the hotel to-morrow, I should like to speak to you upon
another subject."
"Very well, captain," returned Tom somewhat ungraciously.
Delamere had been completely beaten with his own weapons. He had tried
desperately to cheat McBane. He knew perfectly well that McBane had
discovered his efforts and had cheated him in turn, for the captain's
play had clearly been gauged to meet his own. The biter had been bit,
and could not complain of the outcome.
The following afternoon McBane met Delamere at the hotel, and bluntly
requested the latter to propose him for membership in the Clarendon
Club.
Delamere was annoyed at this request. His aristocratic gorge rose at the
presumption of this son of an overseer and ex-driver of convicts.
McBane was good enough to win money from, or even to lose money to, but
not good enough to be recognized as a social equal.
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