retired. He wasn't more than thirty-five now, And then? Oh,
well, he was a regular all-round sportsman; had gone after big game all
over the world and had a good many narrow shaves. Great
steeple-chaser, too. Rather settled down now. Lived in Leicestershire
mostly. Had a big place there. Hunted five times a week. Still did an
occasional flutter, though. Cleared eighty-thousand in Mexicans last
February. Wife had been a barmaid at Cambridge; married her when he
was nineteen. Thing seemed to have turned out quite well. Altogether, a
great character.

Possibly, thought I. But my cursory friend, accustomed to quick
transactions and to things accepted "on the nod," had not proved his case
to my slower, more literary intelligence. It was to him, though, that I
owed, some minutes later, a chance of testing his opinion. At the cry of
"Messieurs, la banque est aux encheres," we looked round and
saw that the subject of our talk was preparing to rise from his place.
"Now one can punt," said Grierson (this was my friend's name), and
turned to the bureau at which counters are for sale. "If old Jimmy Pethel
punts," he added, "I shall just follow his luck." But this lode-star was not
to be. While my friend was buying his counters, and I was wondering
whether I, too, could buy some, Pethel himself came up to the bureau.
With his lips no longer pursed, he had lost his air of gravity, and looked
younger. Behind him was an attendant bearing a big wooden bowl--that
plain, but romantic, bowl supplied by the establishment to a banker
whose gains are too great to be pocketed. He and Grierson greeted each
other. He said he had arrived in Dieppe this afternoon, was here for a
day or two. We were introduced. He spoke to me with
empressement, saying he was a "very great admirer" of my work.
I no longer disliked him. Grierson, armed with counters, had now darted
away to secure a place that had just been vacated. Pethel, with a wave of