He went to a side table and mixed himself a whisky and soda, singing a brief extract from musical comedy as he did so. There could be no shadow of doubt that he was finding life good. For the past few days, and particularly that afternoon, he had been rather noticeably ill at ease. Jimmy had seen him hanging about the terrace at half past five, and had thought that he looked like a mute at a funeral, but now, only a few hours later, he was beaming on the world and chirping like a bird.
The game moved jerkily along. Jimmy took a seat and watched. The score mounted slowly. Lord Dreever was bad, but Hargate was worse. At length, in the eighties, his lordship struck a brilliant vein. When he had finished his break his score was ninety-five. Hargate, who had profited by a series of misses on his opponent’s part, had reached ninety-six.
“This is shortening my life,” said Jimmy, leaning forward.
The balls had been left in an ideal position. Even Hargate could not fail to make a cannon. He made it.
A close finish to even the worst game is exciting. Jimmy leaned still farther forward to watch the next stroke. It looked as if Hargate would have to wait for his victory. A good player could have made a cannon as the balls lay, but not Hargate. They were almost in a straight line, with white in the centre.
Hargate swore under his breath. There was nothing to be done. He struck carelessly at white. White rolled against red, seemed to hang for a moment, and shot straight back against spot. The game was over.
“Great Scot! What a fluke!” cried the silent one, becoming quite garrulous at the miracle.
A quiet grin spread itself slowly across Jimmy’s face. He had remembered what he had been trying to remember for over a week.
At this moment the door opened and Saunders appeared. “Sir Thomas would like to see your lordship in his study,” he said.
“Eh? What does he want?”
“Sir Thomas did not confide in me, your lordship.”
“Eh? What? Oh, no. Well, see you later, you men.”
He rested his cue against the table and put on his coat. Jimmy followed him out of the door, which he shut behind him.
“One second, Dreever,” he said.
“Eh? Halloa! What’s up?”
“Any money on that game?” asked Jimmy.
“Why, yes; by Jove! now you mention it, there was—an even fiver. And—er—by the way, old man, the fact is, just for the moment, I’m frightfully—. You haven’t such a thing as a fiver anywhere about, have you? The fact is—”
“My dear fellow, of course. I’ll square up with him now, shall I?”
“Fearfully obliged if you would. Thanks, old man. Pay it you tomorrow.”
“No hurry,” said Jimmy; “plenty more in the old oak chest.”
He went back to the room. Hargate was practising cannons. He was on the point of making a stroke when Jimmy opened the door.
“Care for a game?” said Hargate.
“Not just at present,” said Jimmy.
Hargate attempted his cannon and failed badly. Jimmy smiled.
“Not such a good shot as the last,” he said.
“No.”
“Fine shot, that other.”
“Fluke.”
“I wonder.”
Jimmy lit a cigarette.
“Do you know New York at all?” he asked.
“Been there.”
“Ever been in the Strollers’ Club?”
Hargate turned his back; but Jimmy had seen his face and was satisfied.
“Don’t know it,” said Hargate.
“Great place,” said Jimmy. “Mostly actors and writers, and so on. The only drawback is that some pick up queer friends.”
Hargate did not reply. He did not seem interested.
“Yes,” went on Jimmy. “For instance, a pal of mine—an actor named Mifflin—introduced a man a year ago as a member’s guest for a fortnight, and this man rooked the fellows of I don’t know how much at billiards. The old game, you know—nursing his man right up to the end, and then finishing with a burst. Of course, when that happens once or twice it may be an accident, but when a man who poses as a novice always manages by a really brilliant shot—”
Hargate turned round.
“They fired this fellow out,” said Jimmy.
“Look here!”
“Yes?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a dull yarn,” said Jimmy apologetically. “I’ve been boring you. By the way, Dreever asked me to square up with you for that game, in case he shouldn’t be back. Here you are.”
He held out an empty hand.
“Got it?”
“What are you going to do?” demanded Hargate.
“What am I going to do?” queried Jimmy.
“You know what I mean. If you’ll keep your mouth shut, and stand in, it’s halves. Is that what you’re after?”
Jimmy was delighted. He knew that by rights the proposal should have brought him from his seat, with stern, set face, to wreak vengeance for the insult, but on such occasions he was apt to ignore the conventions. His impulse, when he met a man whose code of behaviour was not the ordinary code, was to chat with him and to extract his point of view. He felt as little animus against Hargate as he had felt against Spike on the occasion of their first meeting.
“Do you make much at this sort of game?” he asked.
Hargate was relieved. This was businesslike.
“Pots,” he said, with some enthusiasm—“pots I tell you, if you’ll stand in—”
“Bit risky, isn’t it?”
“Not a bit of it. An occasional accident—”
“I suppose you’d call me one?”
Hargate grinned.
“It must be pretty tough work,” said Jimmy. “You must have to use a tremendous lot of self-restraint.”
Hargate sighed.
“That’s the worst of it,” he said—“the having to seem a mug at the game. I’ve been patronised sometimes by young fools who thought they were teaching me till I nearly forgot myself and showed them what real billiards was.”
“There’s always some drawback to the learned professions,” said Jimmy.
“But there’s a heap to make up for it in this one,” said Hargate. “Well, look here; is it a deal? You stand in—”
Jimmy shook his head.
“I guess not,” he said. “It’s good of you,
