Wrengold, dimly aware he was being made fun of somehow, insisted that the poet must take a hand with the financiers. 'You can pass, you know,' he said, 'as often as you like; and you can stake low, or go it blind, according as you’re inclined to. It's a democratic game; every man decides for himself how high he will play, except the banker; and you needn't take bank unless you want it.'
'Oh, if you insist upon it,' Coleyard drawled out, with languid reluctance, 'I'll play, of course. I won't spoil your evening. But remember, I'm a poet; I have strange inspirations.'
The cards were 'squeezers'—that is to say, had the suit and the number of pips in each printed small in the corner, as well as over the face, for ease of reference. We played low at first. The poet seldom staked; and when he did—a few pounds—he lost, with singular persistence. He wanted to play for doubloons or sequins, and could with difficulty be induced to condescend to dollars. Charles looked across at him at last; the stakes by that time were fast rising higher, and we played for ready money. Notes lay thick on the green cloth. 'Well,' he murmured provokingly, 'how about your inspiration? Has Apollo deserted you?'
It was an unwonted flight of classical allusion for Charles, and I confess it astonished me. (I discovered afterwards he had cribbed it from a review in that evening's Critic.) But the poet smiled.
