THE POINT OF HONOR "Tell me, friend Castleton," said Pembroke, banteringly, "art still adhering to thy country drink of lamb's-wool?
Methinks burnt ale and toasted apple might better be replaced in thy case by a beaker of stronger waters.

You lose, and still you lose." "May a plague take it!" cried Castleton.

"I've had no luck these four days.

'Tis that cursed lap-dog of the duchess.

Ugh! I saw it in my dreams last night." "Gad! your own fortune in love must be ill enough, Sir Arthur," said Beau Wilson, as he pushed back his chair during this little lull in the play of the evening.
"And tell me why, Beau ?" "Because of us all who have met here at the Green Lion these last months, not one hath ever had so steady a run of luck.