when a shout surprised his ear: 'The fiddler bolts!'

Captain Abrane's was the voice. About twenty paces behind, Abrane,
Fleetwood, and one whom they called Chummy Potts, were wildly waving
arms. Woodseer could hear the captain's lowered roar: 'Race you, Chummy,
couple of louis, catch him first!' The two came pelting up to the
carriage abreast.

They were belated revellers, and had been carelessly strolling under the
pinky cloudlets bedward, after a prolonged carousal with the sons and
daughters of hilarious nations, until the apparition of Virgin Luck on
the wing shocked all prospect of a dead fight with the tables that day.

'Here, come, no, by Jove, you, Mr. Woodsir! won't do, not a bit! can't
let you go,' cried Abrane, as he puffed. 'What! cut and run and leave
us, post winnings--bankers--knock your luck on the head! What a fellow!
Can't let you. Countess never forgive us. You promised--swore it--play
for her. Struck all aheap to hear of your play! You've got the trick.
Her purse for you in my pocket. Never a fellow played like you. Cool as
a cook over a-gridiron! Comme un phare! St. Ombre says--that Frenchman.
You astonished the Frenchman! And now cut and run? Can't allow it.
Honour of the country at stake.'

'Hands off!' Woodseer bellowed, feeling himself a leaky vessel in dock,
his infirmities in danger of exposure. 'If you pull!--what the deuce do
you want? Stop!'

'Out you come,' said the giant, and laughed at the fun to his friends,
who were entirely harmonious when not violently dissenting, as is the way
with Night's rollickers before their beds have reconciled them to the