" He pulled himself together, squared his
shoulders. "Isn't it very precarious?" he said firmly.
The word precarious--seemed to be effective, because Ricardo's eyes lost
their dangerously interested expression.
"No, not so bad," Ricardo said, with indifference. "It's my opinion that
men will gamble as long as they have anything to put on a card. Gamble?
That's nature. What's life itself? You never know what may turn up. The
worst of it is that you never can tell exactly what sort of cards you
are holding yourself. What's trumps?--that is the question. See? Any man
will gamble if only he's given a chance, for anything or everything. You
too--"
"I haven't touched a card now for twenty years," said Schomberg in an
austere tone.
"Well, if you got your living that way you would be no worse than you
are now, selling drinks to people--beastly beer and spirits, rotten
stuff fit to make an old he-goat yell if you poured it down its throat.
Pooh! I can't stand the confounded liquor. Never could. A whiff of neat
brandy in a glass makes me feel sick. Always did. If everybody was like
me, liquor would be going a-begging. You think it's funny in a man,
don't you?"
Schomberg made a vague gesture of toleration. Ricardo hitched up his
chair and settled his elbow afresh on the table.
"French siros I must say I do like. Saigon's the place for them.
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