Produced by Suzanne L. Shell, Charles Franks and Distributed Proofreaders RUGGLES of RED GAP By Harry Leon Wilson 1915 {Illustration: “I TAKE IT YOU FAILED TO WIN THE HUNDRED POUNDS, SIR?”} {Dedication} TO HELEN COOKE WILSON CHAPTER ONE At 6:30 in our Paris apartment I had finished the Honourable George, performing those final touches that make the difference between a man well turned out and a man merely dressed. In the main I was not dissatisfied. His dress waistcoats, it is true, no longer permit the inhalation of anything like a full breath, and his collars clasp too closely. (I have always held that a collar may provide quite ample room for the throat without sacrifice of smartness if the depth be at least two and one quarter inches.) And it is no secret to either the Honourable George or our intimates that I have never approved his fashion of beard, a reddish, enveloping, brushlike affair never nicely enough trimmed. I prefer, indeed, no beard at all, but he stubbornly refuses to shave, possessing a difficult chin. Still, I repeat, he was not nearly impossible as he now left my hands. “Dining with the Americans,” he remarked, as I conveyed the hat, gloves, and stick to him in their proper order. “Yes, sir,” I replied. “And might I suggest, sir, that your choice be a grilled undercut or something simple, bearing in mind the undoubted effects of shell-fish upon one’s complexion?” The hard truth is that after even a very little lobster the Honourable George has a way of coming out in spots. A single oyster patty, too, will often spot him quite all over. “What cheek! Decide that for myself,” he retorted with a lame effort at dignity which he was unable to sustain. His eyes fell from mine. “Besides, I’m almost quite certain that the last time it was the melon. Wretched things, melons!” Then, as if to divert me, he rather fussily refused the correct evening stick I had chosen for him and seized a knobby bit of thornwood suitable only for moor and upland work, and brazenly quite discarded the gloves. “Feel a silly fool wearing gloves when there’s no reason!” he exclaimed pettishly. “Quite so, sir,” I replied, freezing instantly. “Now, don’t play the juggins,” he retorted. “Let me be comfortable. And I don’t mind telling you I stand to win a hundred quid this very evening.” “I dare say,” I replied. The sum was more than needed, but I had cause to be thus cynical. “From the American Johnny with the eyebrows,” he went on with a quite pathetic enthusiasm. “We’re to play their American game of poker--drawing poker as they call it. I’ve watched them play for near a fortnight. It’s beastly simple. One has only to know when to bluff.” “A hundred pounds, yes, sir. And if one loses----” He flashed me a look so deucedly queer that it fair chilled me.