THE FLEECE TAVERN
Wynne laughed. “Gawd, man! he’s givin’ him his due. Aren’t you, Ferrers?”
The captain scowled. “I’ faith I am. Two hundred guineas again last night. May the plague take him! Such luck is not in nature.”
“He wins upon us all, by the Lord!” said Cornbury, stoutly.
Heywood sneered. “Bah! You Irish are too easy with your likes—”
“And dislikes, too,” returned Cornbury, with a swift glance.
“Faugh!” snapped Ferrers. “The man saved your life, but you can’t thrust him down our throats, Captain Cornbury.”
“He’s cooked his goose well this time, thank God!” said Wynne. “We’ll soon be rid of him.”
“Another duel?” asked Heywood, carelessly.
“What!” cried Downey. “Have you not heard of the struggle for precedence this afternoon? Why, man, ’tis the talk of London. To-day there was a fight between the coaches and retainers of the Embassades of France and Spain. Thanks to Mornay, the French coach
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