The words were pouring out breathlessly from the almost sobbing Hilda. Cheerio regarded her gravely and then looked away. At sight of the upturned chess table, he whistled softly, stepped forward and set it in place. Stooping again, he picked up the scattered chessmen and then, to the amazement of all in that room, Cheerio calmly proceeded to set the men precisely in place upon the board. As he put the King, the Queen, the Bishop, the Knight and the Castles into their respective places, a curious expression, one of amazement not unmixed with joy, quivered over the weatherbeaten face of old P. D. McPherson. When the pawns were upon their squares, almost mechanically the Chess Champion of Western Canada pulled up his chair to the table. Over his glasses he peered up at the Englishman.
“You play chess, sir?”
“A bit.”
A speck of colour came out on either of the old man’s high cheek bones.
“Very good, sir. We will have a game.”
“Awfully sorry, sir. I’d jolly well like a game, b-b-but the fact is, I’m—er—what you call in Canada—hiking.”
“Hiking—nothing,” muttered P. D., as he set his own side into place. “I allow you the Whites, sir. First move, if you please.”
“Awfully sorry, sir, b-but the fact is, I’m d-d-d-discharged, you know. Mr. Bully Bill here—”
“Damn Bully Bill! I’m the boss of the O Bar O! Your move, sir.”
Cheerio blinked, hesitated, and then lifted his pawn and set it two paces forward.
Slowly, carefully, P. D. responded with a black pawn in the same position.
Cheerio made no second move. He was leaning across the board, looking not at the chessmen but straight into the face of his employer.
“Tell you what I’ll do, governor” (he had always referred to P. D. as “governor”) “I’ll play you for my job. What do you say? One game a night till I’m beat. I’ll work through the day as usual, and play for my job at night. There’s a sporting proposition. How about it?”
A snort came from Sandy and a smile from Hilda.
“The poor simp!” audibly chuckled the boy. Hilda was laconic and to the point:
“Hm! You’ll be hitting the trail in short order.”
P. D. merely looked over his glasses with a jerk, nodded and grunted:
“Very good, sir, I accept your terms. Your move!”
Cheerio’s Knight made its eccentric jump, and after a long pause the ranchman’s Bishop swept the board. Cheerio put forward another pawn, and down came P. D.’s Queen. His opponent’s King was now menaced from two sides, on the one by P. D.’s Queen and on the other by his Bishop. Cheerio’s expression was blank, as after a pause he neatly picked up and put another pawn one pace forward. P. D. was holding his lower lip between forefinger and thumb, a characteristic attitude when in concerned thought. There was deep silence in the room, and it was fifteen minutes before the ranchman made his next move; ten before the Englishman made his.
Hilda’s breath was suspended, her cheeks scarlet, her eyes wide with excitement, while Sandy, his mouth agape, watched the moves with unabated amazement.
Bully Bill, meanwhile, discreetly departed. Once Cheerio had taken his seat opposite the old chess monomaniac his foreman realized that “the jig was up.” He did not admit defeat to his men. That would have been a reflection upon his own influence at O Bar O. Bully Bill gave forth the information that Cheerio had given a satisfactory explanation of his action at the branding, and the “confession” which Holy Smoke had overheard must’ve been “a sort of a mistake. Because there ain’t nothing to it,” said Bully Bill, chewing hard on his plug, and avoiding the amazed eye of the injured Ho.
Meanwhile, in the living-room of O Bar O, two more moves had been made and the chessmen faced each other in an intricate position for the one side. With eyes bulging, Sandy leaned forward, staring at the board, while Hilda drew her chair close to her father’s. Slowly there dawned upon the son and daughter of P. D. McPherson—no mean chess players, despite their aversion for the game—the realization that a trap was being deliberately forged to close in upon their father’s forces. Hilda wanted to cry out, to warn her old Dad, but a pronounced twitching of P. D.’s left eye revealed the fact that he was sensitively cognizant of his danger. Hilda’s hand crept unconsciously to her throat, as if to still her frightened breathing, as she gazed with incredulous eyes at the diabolical movements of the man she now assured herself she bitterly and positively detested and loathed.
There was a long silence. Another move and a longer pause. P. D.’s trembling old hand poised above a Knight. Pause. A pawn slipped to the left of the Knight. The Knight half raised—no place to go—sacrificed. Out came the Queen. A pause. The Englishman’s Bishop swept clear across the board and took up a cocky position directly in the path of P. D.’s King. He moved to take the Bishop, saw the Castle in line, retreated, and found himself facing Cheerio’s Queen. Another move, and the Knight had him. A very long pause. A search for a place to go. P. D.’s dulled eyes gazed through their specs at Cheerio, and the latter murmured politely:
“Check to your king, sir. Game.”
The dazed P. D. stared in stunned silence at the board, forefinger and thumb pinching his underlip.
“Holy Salmon!” burst from Sandy. A sob of wrath came from the big chair where sat the daughter of the former chess champion.
“Awfully sorry, governor,” said Cheerio, gently.
P. D. reached across a shaking old hand.
“I congratulate you, sir,” said the defeated one. “You play a damned good game.”
For the first time in his chess life, P. D. McPherson had been soundly licked.
