On their way up to the card-room Mr. Roscorla and one of his venerable
companions went into the hall to get their cigar-cases from their
top-coat pockets. This elderly gentleman had been the governor of an
island in the Pacific: he had now been resident for many years in
England. He was on the directorate of one or two well-known commercial
companies; he had spoken at several meetings on the danger of
dissociating religion from education in the training of the young; in
short, he was a tower of respectability. On the present occasion he
had to pull out a muffler to get at his cigar-case, and with the
muffler came a small parcel tied up in tissue-paper.
"Neat, aren't they?" said he with a senile grin, showing Mr. Roscorla
the tips of a pair of pink satin slippers.
"Yes," said Mr. Roscorla: "I suppose they're for your daughter."
They went up to the card-room.
"I expect you'll teach us a lesson, Roscorla," said the old general.
"Gad! some of you West Indian fellows know the difference between a
ten and an ace."
"Last time I played cards," Roscorla said modestly, "I was lucky
enough to win forty-eight pounds,"
"Whew! We can't afford that sort of thing on this side of the
water--not if you happen to serve Her Majesty, any way.
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