Flashman And The Tiger

"—those wee coloured counters with the feathers on them, he just put them in front of him—and mine too, because, you see, he was advising me how to bet, since I did not understand the rules, or how much it would be safe to wager. And I must say," says she, opening the floodgates, "it is quite the silliest game, for there’s no cleverness in it, and indeed I told him so. `For how can we tell what to wager,' I said, `when we have no notion of what the Prince’s cards may amount to? Why, he may have a count of nine, and then where shall we be?' He laughed and said we must take the risk, for it was a gamble. `I know that,' I said, `but it would be more fun if we knew one of the Prince’s cards, and he knew one of ours, for then we could judge how much to put on.' He said we must be like Montrose, and repeated that verse we used to recite at school, you know the one, about fearing our fate too much who will not put it to the touch to win or lose it all, and I said `That is all very well, Sir William, but remember what happened to him,' and he laughed more than ever …"

I love her dearly, far beyond any creature I’ve ever known, and I can prove it, for never once in almost seventy years of married life have I taken her by the throat. Mind you, it’s been a near thing, once or twice.

"—and the court cards, would you believe it, count for nothing! `Why, then,' I asked him, `do they have them in the pack at all?' and he said he supposed it was to make weight, whatever that may mean, and I said it was a great annoyance to have to pay out to the bank when we had been dealt two kings, and got another when we asked for a third card, and the Prince’s cards were the sorriest rags, but they made eight, and that was the better hand, but it seems hard that three kings should be worth nothing at all …"

I took her gently by the arm and steered her away from the drawing-room door to an alcove at the end of the corridor, for I could see there was only one way, and that was to come out with the thing plump and plain. "Did you see Cumming at any time add counters to his stake after the Prince had declared the result of the hand?"

She took her lower lip gently in her teeth—a tiny gesture of puzzlement which has been turning my heart over since 1839. "You mean after the Prince had said who had won?"

"Precisely."

She frowned. "But, then … it would be too late to add w his stake, surely?"

"That’s the whole point. Did he, at any time, after the result had been called, place any counters beyond the line?"

"Which line?"

"The line," I replied through gritted teeth, "round the edge of the cloth on the table." It was like talking to a backward Bushman. "The line beyond which the stakes are placed."

"Oh, is that what the line was for? I thought it was just for the look of the thing." She reflected for a moment, and shook her head. "No … I cannot think that I saw him putting out more counters, after …" As realisation dawned, the forget-me-not eyes opened wide, and her lips parted. "Why, Harry, that would have been cheating!"

"Begad, you’re right! So it would … but you never saw him do any such thing—with his hands, or a pencil—"

"Gracious, no! Why, I should have checked him at once, and told him it would not do—that he had made a mistake, and must …" And at that she stopped short, staring at me, and slowly her alarm changed into the oddest old-fashioned look, and then she smiled—that old teasing cherry-lipped Elspeth pout that used to have me thrusting the door to and wrenching at my breeches. To my astonishment I saw that her eyes were suddenly moist as she shook her head and came close to me, putting a gloved hand up to my whiskers.

"Oh, Harry, my jo, ye sweet old thing!" murmurs she. "Is that why you’re tasking me with all these daft questions—because that clavering auld clype Owen Williams has told you that Billy Cumming put his hand on mine once or twice at the baccarat?" She laughed softly, loving-sad, and stroked my withered cheek. "To be sure he did—but only to guide me in placing my wagers, silly! And you’re still jealous for your old wife, wild lad that you are—well, I’m glad, so there! Come here!" And she kissed me in a way which any decent matron should have forgotten long ago. "As though I’ve ever wanted to fetch any man but you," says she fondly, straightening my collar. "Supposing I still could. Now, if you’ll give me your arm to the drawing-room, I dare say Mrs Wilson will be serving tea."