"I shouldn't wonder. Knew each other out in America. Bridge, bridge, ber-ridge, a capital game for two. Shuffle and cut and deal away, and let the lo-oser pay-ah. Ber-ridge----" "Well, let's have a game, then. Anything for something to do. Curse this rain! We shall be cooped up here till dinner at this rate." "Double dummy's a frightfully rotten game," said Spennie. "Ever played picquet? I could teach it to you in five minutes." A look of almost awe came into Wesson's face, the look of one who sees a miracle performed before his eyes. For years he had been using all the large stock of diplomacy at his command to induce callow youths to play picquet with him and here was this admirable young man, this pearl among young men, positively offering to teach him. It was too much happiness. What had he done to deserve this? He felt as a toil-worn lion might have felt if an antelope, instead of making its customary bee line for the horizon, had expressed a friendly hope that it would be found tender and inserted its head between his jaws. "I--it's very good of you. I shouldn't mind being shown the idea." He listened attentively while Spennie explained at some length the principles which govern the game of picquet. Every now and then he asked a question. It was evident that he was beginning to grasp the idea of the game. "_What_ exactly is repicquing?" he asked, as Spennie paused. "It's like this," said Spennie, returning to his lecture. "Yes, I see now," said the neophyte. They began playing. Spennie, as was only to be expected in a contest between teacher and student, won the first two hands. Wesson won the next. "I've got the hang of it all right, now," he said complacently. "It's a simple sort of game. Make it more exciting, don't you think, if we played for something?" "All right," said Spennie slowly, "if you like." He would not have suggested it himself, but after all, hang it, if the man simply _asked_ for it--It was not his fault if the winning of a hand should have given the fellow the impression that he knew all that there was to be known about picquet. Of course, picquet was a game where skill was practically bound to win. But--After all, Wesson had plenty of money. He could afford it. "All right," said Spennie again. "How much?" "Something fairly moderate. Ten bob a hundred?" There is no doubt that Spennie ought at this suggestion to have corrected the novice's notion that ten shillings a hundred was fairly moderate. He knew that it was possible for a poor player to lose four hundred points in a twenty-minute game, and usual for him to lose two hundred. But he let the thing go. "Very well," he said. Twenty minutes later, Mr. Wesson was looking somewhat ruefully at the score sheet. "I owe you eighteen shillings," he said. "Shall I pay you, now, or shall we settle up in a lump after we've finished?" "What about stopping now?" said Spennie. "It's quite fine out."