Mr. Pomeroy saw nothing and heard nothing, and for a time suspected nothing.  The servant was a crafty fellow, a London rascal, deft at whipping away full bottles.  He was an age finding a clean glass, and slow in drawing the next cork.  He filled the host’s bumper, and Mr. Thomasson’s, and had but half a glass for his master.  The next bottle he impudently pronounced corked, and when Pomeroy cursed him for a liar, brought him some in an unwashed glass that had been used for Bordeaux.  The wine was condemned, and went out; and though Pomeroy, with unflagging spirits, roared to Jarvey to open the other bottles, the butler had got the office, and was slow to bring them.  The cheese came and went, and left Lord Almeric cooler than it found him.  The tutor was overjoyed at the success of his tactics.

But when the board was cleared, and the bottles were set on, and the men withdrawn, Bully Pomeroy began to push what remained of the Brooks and Hellier after a fashion that boded an early defeat to the tutor’s precautions.  It was in vain Thomasson clung to the bottle and sometimes returned it Hertfordshire fashion.  The only result was that Mr. Pomeroy smelt a rat, gave Lord Almeric a back-hander, and sent the bottle on again, with a grin that told the tutor he was understood.

After that Mr. Thomasson had the choice between sitting still and taking his own part.  It was neck or nothing.  Lord Almeric was already hiccoughing and would soon be talking thickly.  The next time the bottle came round, the tutor retained it, and when Lord Almeric reached, for it, ‘No, my lord,’ he said, laughing; ’Venus first and Bacchus afterwards.  Your lordship has to wait on the lady.  When you come down, with Mr. Pomeroy’s leave, we’ll crack another bottle.’

My lord withdrew his hand more readily than the other had hoped.  ’Right, Tommy,’ he said.  ’I’ll wait till I come down.  What’s that song, “Rich the treasure, sweet the pleasure, sweet is pleasure after pain”?  Oh, no, damme!  I don’t mean that,’ he continued.  ‘No.  How does it go?’

Mr. Pomeroy thrust the bottle into his hands, looking daggers the while at the tutor.  ‘Take another glass,’ he cried boisterously. ’’Swounds, the girl will like you the better for it.’

‘D’ye think so, Pom?  Honest?’

’Sure of it.  ‘Twill give you spirit, my lord.’

‘So it will.’

’At her and kiss her!  Are you going to be governed all your life by that whey-faced old Methodist?  Or be your own man?  Tell me that.’

‘My lord, there’s fifty thousand pounds upon it,’ Thomasson said, his face red.  And he pushed back the bottle.  The setting sun, peeping a moment through the rain clouds and the low-browed lattice windows, flung an angry yellow light on the board and the three flushed faces round it.  ‘Fifty thousand pounds,’ repeated Mr. Thomasson firmly.

‘Damme! so there is!’ my lord answered, settling his chin in his cravat and dusting the crumbs from his breeches.  ‘I’ll take no more.  So there!’