The third sat in front of the fire with his face upturned to the
ceiling. He was a tall, big man with mighty legs which sprawled one on
each side of the hearth. He was the youngest of the three by five years,
but his forehead at this moment was so creased, his mouth so pursed up,
his cheeks so wrinkled, he had the look of sixty years. He puffed and
breathed very heavily; once or twice he sighed, and at each sigh his
chair creaked under him. Major O'Toole of Dillon's regiment was
thinking.

"Gaydon," said he, suddenly.

The man at the table looked up quickly.

"Misset."

The man at the window turned impatiently.

"I have an idea."

Misset shrugged his shoulders.

Gaydon said, "Let us hear it."

O'Toole drew himself up; his chair no longer creaked, it groaned and
cracked.

"It is a lottery," said he, "and we have made our fortunes. We three are
the winners, and so our names are not crossed out."

"But I have put no money in a lottery," objected Gaydon.

"Nor I," said Misset.

"And where should I find money either?" said O'Toole. "But Charles Wogan
has borrowed it for us and paid it in, and so we're all rich men.
What'll I buy with it?"

Misset paced the room.

"The paper came four days ago?" he said.