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His fellow Englishmen as well were shocked by the behaviour of the Australian, and all were troubled by fear of some untoward act on his part. That he was working up his animosity against the half-caste, and that the explosion might come any time, was apparent to all. "I hope Peter loses," McMurtrey said in an undertone. "Not if he has any luck," Andrews answered. "He's a wizard at piquet.
In a few minutes David Grief will enter through that door and say, 'In Guvutu they merely drink between drinks. I'll wager fifty pounds he's the man that enters and that his words will be, 'In Guvutu they merely drink between drinks. " Deacon was for the moment crushed. The sullen blood rose darkly in his face. "Well, he's answered you," McMurtrey laughed genially.
"All right," said Peter Gee. At another table four of the others sat in at bridge. Captain Stapler, who was no card-player, looked on and replenished the long glasses of Scotch that stood at each man's right hand. McMurtrey, with poorly concealed apprehension, followed as well as he could what went on at the piquet table.
McMurtrey was about to interpose, but Grief restrained him with his eyes. "If it positively is the last, all right," said Peter Gee, gathering up the cards. "It's my deal, I believe. As I understand it, this final is for fifteen pounds. Either you owe me thirty or we quit even?" "That's it, chappie. Either we break even or I pay you thirty." "Getting blooded, eh?"
Did you catch that big squall an hour after you left us? We had to let go the second anchor." While he was being introduced to Deacon, McMurtrey dispatched a house-boy with the pants, and when Captain Donovan came in it was as a white man should at least in Goboto. Deacon lost the second game, and an outburst heralded the fact. Peter Gee devoted himself to lighting a cigarette and keeping quiet.
"Oh, I say " McMurtrey began. "You can play bridge," Deacon shut him off. "We prefer piquet." Reluctantly, Peter Gee was bullied into a game that he knew would be unhappy. "Only a rubber," he said, as he cut for deal. "For how much?" Deacon asked. Peter Gee shrugged his shoulders. "As you please." "Hundred up five pounds a game?" Peter Gee agreed. "With the lurch double, of course, ten pounds?"
There, look at it." Deacon intercepted the letter of credit as it was being passed across the table. He read it slowly, then glanced up at McMurtrey. "Is that right?" "Yes. It's just the same as your own, and just as good. The company's paper is always good." Deacon cut the cards, won the deal, and gave them a thorough shuffle. But his luck was still against him, and he lost the game.
"That's progression," McMurtrey warned, and was rewarded by a glare from Deacon. But the manager was insistent. "You don't have to play progression, Grief, unless you're foolish." "Who's playing this game?" Deacon flamed at his host; and then, to Grief: "I've lost two thousand to you. Will you play for two thousand?" Grief nodded, the fourth game began, and Deacon won.
"You're all strangers to me," Deacon complained. "How am I to know? Money on paper isn't always the real thing." Then it was that Peter Gee, drawing a wallet from his pocket and borrowing a fountain pen from McMurtrey, went into action. "I haven't gone to buying yet," the half-caste explained, "so the account is intact. I'll just indorse it over to you, Grief. It's for fifteen thousand.
"What? are you quitting because you're ahead?" Deacon demanded. Grief raised his eyebrows questioningly to McMurtrey, who frowned back his own disgust. "It's the rubber," Peter Gee answered. "It takes three games to make a rubber. It's my deal. Come on!" Peter Gee acquiesced, and the third game was on. "Young whelp he needs a lacing," McMurtrey muttered to Grief. "Come on, let us quit, you chaps.
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