He snerks, and then says calmly, "Oh, I do. That's why I'm offering at all. You've known me since I was eleven; do you really think I'd offer if I were worried?"
"I don't want any hobby involving a person like that," he says firmly. "Oh, will I? Goodness, he does make assumptions. Don't punch me when I cater to them..." At this, although he would of course deny it to his dying day, he flushes a bit, and masks it by snatching up a coaster to fan himself with and drawling in a bit of a cross between Southern belle and Percy Blakeney, "La, sir, you wouldn't take advantage of a fella, now, would you, even if he were?" This, he would explain if asked, is also intended to cater to the assumptions he believes Alf to be making. Calming influence and all.
"No, I don't advise it, they're a nuisance," he agrees, topping up Rus's glass. "Flub it good it is," he agrees, picking the dice up and shaking them with too much of both energy and stiffness. "Three!" he complains loudly. "Hardly seems worthwhile. Oh, well, work with what you're given, what?" He glares narrowly at the board, and throws a two in the outer red, a seven in the outer black, and another two that would have been nearly a fifteen if it hadn't bounced off the metal divider. Grumbling*, he takes a drink of his whiskey and retrieves all their darts.
* Rus can probably hear him muttering 'rutabaga and watermelon,' but Alf can't. (g)