England -- Social life and customs -- 20th century -- Fiction
Phillips leant over the banisters, and at the second attempt thrust the
sharpened end of the long strip of wood into the eye of the burner.
There was a feeble flicker or two, and then the whole place was wrapped
in darkness. He was only just in time, for almost on the same instant
Foster came out of the dining-room. They heard him muttering that the
gas had gone wrong, and watched him, faintly outlined by a match, strive
in vain to light the gas once more. After the third attempt he abandoned
the effort with an oath and went back to the dining-room. Straining
their ears, the two men on the landing could hear Copley's reply.
"Choked up with dust, I suppose. But never mind so long as we are all
right. Sit down and eat. I daresay those other fellows will be some time
yet."
Phillips whispered in his companion's ear.
"I think we shall be safe. What do you say to creep away now we have the
opportunity? Or would it be worth while to stay outside the dining-room
and listen to what they're talking about? It is pitch dark, and we can
slope at any moment."
Fielden was feeling reckless. It did not matter what happened. Without
further ado they tiptoed into the hall where, by the aid of the intense
stillness and a door ajar, they commanded all that was going on. Copley
sat at one end of the table, facing Foster at the other. For some time
the two men ate steadily with an appetite sharpened by their drive
through the cold air. When the meal was finished Copley pushed his chair
aside and strode over to the fireplace. Would Foster remove the supper
things? He had begun to gather the plates and dishes together when
Copley stopped him.
"Oh, never mind the things," he said impatiently. "Let the man remove
them in the morning. He can finish up what is left. We have more
important matters to attend to. Take a cigar and sit down by the fire.
What is the next move?"
"We have had cruel bad luck," Foster replied. "Who would have expected
to have two race-days ruined by snowstorms? A prophet could not have
foreseen anything like this. I reckon we have lost twenty thousand
pounds the last two days."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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