“Like I told you, pops,” he said earnestly, “you don’t have a thing to worry about. Your pals will kick in and you’ll be home in a couple of days. And as for what we can do to pass the time without the TV, we can talk, can’t we? Clare, he don’t like to talk to me much, I don’t know why. And there ain’t anyone else around here to talk to. That old bag that does the cleanin’, she’s more of a clam than Clare. That thing in the paper said you guys write books. Well, I could give you a couple of real plots, believe me! I could tell you a couple of stories that would turn your hair white—”
Carruthers held up his hand.
“Beyond the fact that my hair is already white,” he said sadly, “I’m afraid my writing days are gone with Nineveh and Tyre—”
Harold frowned. “Who’re they?”
“Not a song-and-dance team, although I admit they sound like it. Let me put it that my writing days are gone with narrow lapels and miniature golf, with trouser cuffs and neckties that light up, to bring it into your ken. Any stories you told me would be just so much waste. I haven’t put a word on paper since 1925.”
“And I wasn’t even born then,” Harold said reverently.
“If since,” Carruthers remarked absently, and frowned. “No draughts in the house?”
“Naw,” Harold said, rather surprised by the abrupt change in subject. “The place is built like a brick — I mean, they really knew how to build houses in them days.”
“Draughts,” Carruthers explained patiently. “What you Americans frivolously call checkers.”
“Oh! Naw.” Harold shook his head. “I ain’t even seen checkers since one time in Dannemora.”
“Or chess, then. Or backgammon,” Carruthers said, getting desperate. “Or anything, if it comes to that. Even a deck of old cards and a worn bowler hat we could toss the cards into.”
“No games,” Harold said sadly. “And if we had cards we wouldn’t have to throw them into no hat. We could play gin.”
“Gin?”
“Sure. Gin rummy. It’s a card game two guys can play. It’s lots of fun.”
Carruthers suddenly snapped his fingers. He honestly had forgotten.
“I say! By the oddest of coincidences, now that I remember, I just happen to have two decks of cards in my bag.” He looked amazed, as well he should have, at his failure to recall the fact earlier; the cards had cost him enough trouble on the S.S. Sunderland. “They were mementos of a cruise we recently took on a ship called the S.S. Sunderland. With them — plus, of course, some forty-eight or forty-nine other decks, all the decks of cards the game-room steward had, as a matter of fact — I am pleased to say we were able to prepare for the game of Burmese solitaire. The preparation took us all night, with the three of us working like mad, Cliff and I on the cards and Tim running back and forth to the purser’s sharpening pencils, but I’m happy to say the results were quite gratifying.” His face fell at a certain memory. “Unfortunately, the captain — a stickler — requisitioned the sums we won for his own purposes — he said as evidence of something or other, but one never knows. Possibly his salary was not as princely as his uniforms.” Carruthers sighed bravely. “Still, I managed to salvage these two decks of cards as mementos of the affair, so I can’t say it was a total loss.”
“Gee!” Harold said admiringly. “You talk funny!”
“Yes,” Carruthers said, acknowledging the compliment with a modest nod of his head. “Which,” he added, “is precisely why I feel that mere conversation, despite the scintillation your remarkable efforts contribute, would be a relatively poor means of occupying time. Much better, in line with your latter suggestion, to play this whatever-the-name-of-it-is card game you mentioned.”
“Gin rummy,” Harold said, amazed that anyone in the civilized world hadn’t heard of the game. Still, he supposed they probably didn’t even have cards when the old man was young. He looked across the table. “You don’t know how to play?”
“No,” Carruthers admitted, “but I assume with your eloquence and command of the language you will be able to acquaint me with the basic rules of the game in a mere matter of minutes.” He added a trifle modestly, “In addition to a flair for alliteration, I have a rather good card sense, you know.”
“Well, all right,” Harold said, and hesitated. “But I better warn you, pops, I’m pretty good at cards, all kinds of cards, and especially at gin. When I was workin’ in Chicago, I had to play gin with the boss every night until he got sleepy or until Maisie come home from the club, whichever come first. And I had to see to it the son-of-a — I mean, I had to see to it he won every time. It ain’t that easy losin’ every game without givin’ it away, pops, believe me!”
Carruthers looked at him curiously.
“And you believe your boss really cared whether you lost on purpose or not, just as long as you lost?”
“I never aimed to find out,” Harold said honestly. He paused and frowned a bit diffidently. “Say, pops — you know, in this game of gin, sometimes guys, well, they sort of... well... bet...”
“You mean, wager?”
“Yeah.”
“You mean, they play for — money?”
“Well, yeah. It’s sort of supposed to make the game more interestin’. I don’t suppose—” He looked at the innocent features of his newly found friend and came to a sad conclusion. He sighed. “Naw. I guess not. You don’t look the kind.”
“One can always change,” Carruthers said bravely. “One must always be prepared to learn.”
“Yeah!” Harold said, brightening. “You’re a real sport, pops. I won’t make it too tough on you.” He considered. “How’s about a penny a point?”
“British or American?”
“Huh? Is there a difference?” Harold had never been able to understand the intricacies of the British currency system, nor had he ever faced the need to. Clarence handled all the financial matters in the household, nor would Clarence have had it any other way.
“There is a difference,” Carruthers said sadly. “Not as great as it once was, or as it should be, but definitely a difference.” He thought a moment and then nodded his head. “However, to eliminate this fiduciary confusion, why don’t we simply forget the pennies, or pence, or whatever. Why don’t we play, instead, for a few shillings a point?”
“What are shillings? They worth much?”
Carruthers sighed mightily.
“Again, not what they were, or should be. I remember a time — but I digress. To get back to shillings, why don’t we utilize the decimal system for the purpose for which it was originally created and play for — say — ten shillings a point? In that way all we have to do is multiply the point difference in our score by ten and we’ll know where we stand, what? Reduce the arithmetical difficulties, so to speak.”
Harold had long since given up any attempt to understand every word Carruthers said, but there were still certain principles he wanted clearly understood.
“Yeah,” he said doubtfully, “but the thing is, I don’t want to see you get hurt, pops. Bein’ nicked for the ransom’s bad enough. So how much is that ten-whatevers in dough?”
Carruthers might not have heard him.
“And I’ll keep the score so there is no confusion,” he said in a kindly tone, “since the numbers are obviously strange to you.” He reached into a pocket for a pencil.
“Sure, but how much—?”