after snorting out some unintelligible sounds, went to sleep.

The dice went rattling on; the candles were burning dim, with great
long wicks.

"Seven's the main," cried the Count. "Four. Three to two against
the caster."

"Ponies," said the Warwickshire Squire.

Rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, clatter, NINE. Clap, clap, clap,
clap, ELEVEN. Clutter, clutter, clutter, clutter: "Seven it is,"
says the Warwickshire Squire. "That makes eight hundred, Count."

"One throw for two hundred," said the Count. "But stop! Cat, give
us some more punch."

Mrs. Cat came forward; she looked a little pale, and her hand
trembled somewhat. "Here is the punch, Max," said she. It was
steaming hot, in a large glass. "Don't drink it all," said she;
"leave me some."

"How dark it is!" said the Count, eyeing it.

"It's the brandy," said Cat.

"Well, here goes! Squire, curse you! here's your health, and bad
luck to you!" and he gulped off more than half the liquor at a
draught. But presently he put down the glass and cried, "What
infernal poison is this, Cat?"