quarrel over a pool of Pope Joan.  There was no slur on his credit, though; ’twas just a bit of temper.  He wounded all three; two but trifling; but one of them—­Chapley, or Capley, I think, was his name—­through the lungs, and he died, I heard, abroad.  I saw him killed—­’twasn’t the last; it was done while you’d count ten.  Mr. Archer came up with a sort of a sneer, pale and angry, and ’twas a clash of the small swords—­one, two, three, and a spring like a tiger—­and all over.  He was frightful strong; ten times as strong as he looked—­all a deception.’

’Well, Sir, there was a Jew came down, offering wagers, not, you see, to gentlemen, Sir, but to poor fellows.  And Mr. Archer put me and Glascock up to bite him, as he said; and he told us to back Strawberry, and we did.  We had that opinion of his judgment and his knowledge—­you see, we thought he had ways of finding out these things—­that we had no doubt of winning, so we made a wager of twelve pounds.  But we had no money—­not a crown between us—­and we must stake gold with the host of the “Plume of Feathers;” and the long and the short of it was, I never could tell how he put it into our heads, to pledge some of the silver spoons and a gold chain of the master’s, intending to take them out when we won the money.  Well, Strawberry lost, and we were left in the lurch.  So we told Mr. Archer how it was; for he was an off-handed man when he had anything in view, and he told us, as we thought, he’d help us if we lost.  “Help you,” says he, with a sort of laugh he had, “I want help myself; I haven’t a guinea, and I’m afraid you’ll be hanged:  and then,” says he, “stay a bit, and I’ll find a way.”

’I think he was in a bad plight just then himself; he was awful expensive with horses and—­and—­other things; and I think there was a writ, or maybe more, out against him, from other places, and he wanted a lump of money in his hand to levant with, and go abroad.  Well, listen, and don’t be starting, or making a row, Sir,’ and a sulky, lowering, hang-dog shadow, came over Irons.  ’Your father, Lord Dunoran, played cards; his partner was Mr. Charles Archer.  Whist it was—­with a gentleman of the name of Beauclerc, and I forget the other—­he wore a chocolate suit, and a black wig.  ’Twas I carried them their wine.  Well, Mr. Beauclerc won, and Mr. Archer stopped playing, for he had lost enough; and the gentleman in the chocolate—­what was his name?—­Edwards, I think—­ay, ’twas—­yes, Edwards, it was—­was tired, and turned himself about to the fire, and took a pipe of tobacco; and my lord, your father, played piquet with Mr. Beauclerc; and he lost a power of money to him, Sir; and, by bad luck, he paid a great part of it, as they played, in rouleaus of gold, for he had won at the dice down stairs.  Well, Mr. Beauclerc was a little hearty, and he grew tired, and was for going to bed.  But my lord was angry, and being disguised with liquor too, he would not let him go till they played more; and play they did, and the luck still went the same way; and my lord grew fierce over it, and cursed and drank, and that did not mend his luck you may be sure; and at last Mr. Beauclerc swears he’d play no more; and both kept talking together, and neither heard well what t’other said; but there was some talk about settling the dispute in the morning.