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.
"No," he answered calmly, "I am waiting for one now. When it comes,
you may be sure you shall have the benefit of it."
Next round, Charles dealing and banking, the poet staked on his
card, unseen as usual. He staked like a gentleman. To our immense
astonishment he pulled out a roll of notes, and remarked, in a quiet
tone, "I have an inspiration now. _Half-hearted_ will do. I go five
thousand." That was dollars, of course; but it amounted to a
thousand pounds in English money--high play for an author.
Charles smiled and turned his card. The poet turned his--and won
a thousand.
"Good shot!" Charles murmured, pretending not to mind, though he
detests losing.
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