, he was at the headquarters of love and drink, and had
swallowed so much of each as hardly to be able to speak.

The dice went rattling on; the candles were burning dim, with great long
wicks. Mr. Trippet could hardly see the Captain, and thought, as far as
his muzzy reason would let him, that the Captain could not see him:
so he rose from his chair as well as he could, and fell down on Mrs.
Catherine's sofa. His eyes were fixed, his face was pale, his jaw hung
down; and he flung out his arms and said, in a maudlin voice, "Oh, you
byoo-oo-oo-tifile Cathrine, I must have a kick-kick-iss."

"Beast!" said Mrs. Catherine, and pushed him away. The drunken wretch
fell off the sofa, and on to the floor, where he stayed; and, after
snorting out some unintelligible sounds, went to sleep.

The dice went rattling on; the candles were burning dim, with great long
wicks.

"Seven's the main," cried the Count. "Four. Three to two against the
caster."

"Ponies," said the Warwickshire Squire.

Rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, clatter, NINE. Clap, clap, clap, clap,
ELEVEN. Clutter, clutter, clutter, clutter: "Seven it is," says the
Warwickshire Squire. "That makes eight hundred, Count."

"One throw for two hundred," said the Count. "But stop! Cat, give us
some more punch."

Mrs. Cat came forward; she looked a little pale, and her hand trembled
somewhat. "Here is the punch, Max," said she. It was steaming hot, in a
large glass. "Don't drink it all," said she; "leave me some."

"How dark it is!" said the Count, eyeing it.

"It's the brandy," said Cat.

"Well, here goes! Squire, curse you! here's your health, and bad luck
to you!" and he gulped off more than half the liquor at a draught. But
presently he put down the glass and cried, "What infernal poison is
this, Cat?"

"Poison!" said she. "It's no poison. Give me the glass." And she pledged
Max, and drank a little of it. "'Tis good punch, Max, and of my brewing;
I don't think you will ever get any better." And she went back to the
sofa again, and sat down, and looked at the players.

Mr. Brock looked at her white face and fixed eyes with a grim kind of
curiosity. The Count sputtered, and cursed the horrid taste of the punch
still; but he presently took the box, and made his threatened throw.

As before, the Squire beat him; and having booked his winnings, rose
from table as well as he might and besought to lead him downstairs;
which Mr. Brock did.

Liquor had evidently