And MacAllister never heeded the temptation to laugh, but gave him his heart's desire.
"You play a good hand," was his admiring rejoinder—subtlest of flattery for Master Phil. "Suppose we call it about fifty-fifty."
"How much do you want? Shoot!"
"A little brusque, soul of my soul, but then thou wert ever currish with thy friends."
"Oh, cut it, Mac, you're not back in the Seminary."
The allusion to the early punishment meted out to him by loving parents, who had actually designed him for the pulpit, amused the gambler. He smiled but kept to the main chance.
"Well, about fifty thousand, but five will do."
Now the boy began to envisage the stakes, but resolutely he bluffed on.
"You're a sweet little artist in blackmail."
"Not blackmail, the labourer is worth his hire."
"But you don't dare to see my old man, anyway, so why should I kick in?" He was alarmed now, but, proud of his proficiency in the ways and vernacular of the underworld, he carefully kept his dialogue "in character."
"Your father knows me," the other explained as though with an infinite and even paternal patience, "but I don't think he's ever met Rosetta."
"She isn't here!"
"Not exactly, but within hail."
"All right, but talk some language I can understand, some figures I can count on my fingers."
