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"Now then, Lubi," cried the lord, "which is it? Come on; just this once." Lubi demurred. "You toss too well for me; last night you did win seven times running damn!" "Come on, Lubi; here it is flat on the table."

"Now then, Lubi, old man, I toss you for a sovereign," cried a lord, who looked like a sandwich-man in his ample driving-coat. "You no more toss with me, I have done with you; you too sharp for me." "What! are you going to cut me? Are you going to warn me off your restaurant?" Roars of laughter followed, and the lions of song gazed in admiration on the lord.

Lubini, or Lubi, as he was called by his pals, signed to the waiter, and deciding the case in favour of the young man, he pulled a handful of silver out of his pocket and offered to toss three lords, with whom he was conversing, for drinks all round. "Feeling awfully bad, dear boy; haven't been what I could call sober since Monday. Would you mind holding my liquor for me?

Mike longed to pull his money out of his pocket, but he had not been on terms with Lubi since he had called him a Marchand de Soupe, an insult which Lubi had not been able to forgive, and it was the restaurateur's women-folk who welcomed him back to town after his long absence. "What an air of dissipation, hilarity, and drink there is about the place!" said Mike.

"I may be hard up," cried the lord; "but I'm damned if I ever look hard up; do I, Lubi?" "Since you turn up head when you like, why should you look hard up?" "You want us to believe you are a 'mug, Lubi, that's about it, but it won't do. 'Mugs' are rare nowadays.

I don't know where to go and look for them.... I say, Lubi," and he whispered something in the restaurateur's ear, "if you know of any knocking about, bring them down to my place; you shall stand in." "Damn me! You take me for a pump, do you? You get out!" The genial lord roared the more, and assured Lubi he meant "mugs," and offered to toss him for a sovereign. "How jolly this is!" said Mike.