As a preliminary to another journey to his bunk, he hooked Wolf Larsen's buttonhole with a greasy forefinger and vacuously proclaimed and reiterated, "I got money, I got money, I tell yer, an' I'm a gentleman's son." Wolf Larsen was unaffected by the drink, yet he drank glass for glass, and if anything his glasses were fuller.

There was no change in him.

He did not appear even amused at the other's antics.
In the end, with loud protestations that he could lose like a gentleman, the cook's last money was staked on the game--and lost.

Whereupon he leaned his head on his hands and wept.

Wolf Larsen looked curiously at him, as though about to probe and vivisect him, then changed his mind, as from the foregone conclusion that there was nothing there to probe.
"Hump," he said to me, elaborately polite, "kindly take Mr.Mugridge's arm and help him up on deck.