He was still at his talk, Richard listening moodily what time he was
slowly but surely befuddling himself, when Sir Rowland - returning from
Scoresby Hall - came to bring the news of his lack of success. Richard
hailed him noisily, and bade him ring for another glass, adding, with a
burst of oaths, some appalling threats of how anon he should serve
Anthony Wilding. His wits drowned in the stiff liquor Vallancey had
pressed upon him, he seemed of a sudden to have grown as fierce and
bloodthirsty as any scourer that ever terrorized the watch.

Blake listened to him and grunted. "Body o' me!" swore the town gallant.
"If that's the humour you're going out to fight in, I'll trouble you for
the eight guineas I won from you at Primero yesterday before you start."

Richard reared himself, by the help of the table, and stood a thought
unsteadily, his glance laboriously striving to engage Blake's.

"Damn me!" quoth he. "Your want of faith dishgraces me - and `t
`shgraces you. Shalt ha' the guineas when we're back - and not before."

"Hum!" quoth Blake, to whom eight guineas were a consideration in these
bankrupt days. "And if you don't come back at all upon whom am I to
draw?"

The suggestion sank through Dick's half-fuddled senses, and the scare it
gave him was reflected on his face.

"Damn you, Blake!" swore Vallancey between his teeth. "Is that a decent
way to talk to a man who is going out? Never heed him, Dick! Let him
wait for his dirty guineas till we return."