“Well—” began Cheerio, miserably, “you see—”
He was interrupted by P. D., whose exasperated glare turned from his son to his daughter.
“Is this a game of chess, or a quiz concerning international questions touching upon the infernal recent war?”
“Chess, by all means, sir.” Thus Cheerio, placatingly, and with evident relief at the change of subject. To Sandy, he promised:
“Tell you all about Germany some day, old man, wh-wh-when I’m f-ff-feeling a b-bit more f-fit to tackle the s-ssubject.” To P. D. persuasively:
“How about it, governor? It’s quite fair under the circumstances that I should yield you something. What do you say to a Castle? One will do me first-rate.”
“Sir, when I want quarter, I’ll ask for it. I’ll have you know that I have never yet taken a dashed flippity handicap and when the time comes for me to do that, by Gad! I’ll cease to play. I play, sir, chess, and I want no damned favouritism. I’ll be placed under no G⸺ D⸺ oblig—D⸺—igation to any man.”
“Righto! Your move, sir.”
P. D. was indeed off his game. He was, moreover, the victim of a creeping panic. He made longer pauses, debated a move for a solid hour, in the meanwhile moving (in his head) every single man upon the board; imagine their effect in such and such a position, then presupposing a move which his opponent never intended to make, with a crafty quiver of a bushy eyebrow old P. D. would move to the attack, when the position of his King called for defense.
Once Cheerio made an obviously bad and wild move. This was when looking up unexpectedly he had found Hilda regarding him, not with her usual expression of hate and scorn, but with her dark eyes brimming with something that brought a strange tug to his heart and dimmed his own eyesight.
At that bad move, P. D.’s amazed eyes shot up above his glasses and he coughed angrily. If his opponent were attempting to curry favour with him by playing badly, he would receive no thanks. P. D. removed Cheerio’s valuable Bishop which had been sacrificed by his absent move, and snarled across the board:
“Damned curious move, sir. You wish to stop for tonight?”
“M-m-m‑ore c-c‑areful next time,” murmured Cheerio, stiffened by the fact that Hilda had blinked the brightness out of her eyes, and her chin was at a most disdainful angle. More careful he was; wary, keen and cunning. Before the clock pointed to nine o’clock, Cheerio murmured his firm, if slightly regretful:
“Check! Game!”
P. D. studied the board, his eyebrows twitching. His King was enclosed on all sides. Not even a chance for stalemate. This, though Cheerio had sacrificed his Bishop. P. D. blinked behind his glasses, cleared his throat noisily and grunted:
“Four games for you, sir.” After another noisy clearing of throat:
“Tides turn, sir. Tides turn. He ‘laughs best who laughs last.’ ”
“Oh, rather,” agreed Cheerio eagerly.
Undemonstrative Hilda came behind her father, solicitous and sweet, hovered above him a moment, sat on the arm of his chair, put her arm about his shoulders, cuddled her warm cheek lovingly against the top of his grey head. P. D. jerked up, shaking the embracing arms irritably from his shoulders.
“Well, well, what’s this? What’s this? Stop pawing me,” he objected. “What in the name of Holy Christmas are you whimpering about? I don’t like it. Women’s tears are a scientific evidence of a weak intellect. Stop sniffling, I say! Stop leaking on my neck! Damn dash it all! Get away! Get away!”
Hilda’s rare tears, dropping like pearls down her russet cheeks, described as leaks! In the presence of that man, stooping above the chess board the better to hide the amused grin that would show despite his best efforts, despite indeed the stony glare (if eyes moist with running-over tears could stonily glare) that Hilda favoured him with.
She had no soft thoughts for him now. If she could have forgotten his confession at the corrals, Hilda felt that she never, never could forgive his treatment of her father.
Just what Hilda would have desired him to do in the circumstances, cannot be said. She would have shared her father’s resentment had Cheerio purposely played a poor game, in order to give the older man an opportunity to win. Nevertheless she bitterly resented the fact that his victories were crushing the spirit of the old chess warrior. There had been some discussion—an idea, in fact, put out in the newspaper of that miserable reporter who was camped down by the river, on the edge of the O Bar O lands, that in the event of P. D.’s failure to beat the Englishman that the latter should take his place in Chicago, so that Canada’s chances of the world championship might be more likely assured.
That story, read by Hilda in the newspaper brought her from the camp by Sandy, and jealously hidden from her father, caused the girl’s heart to ache. She was intensely patriotic, was Hilda, and she desired, as any good Canadian would, to see the championship wrested from the U.S.A., but she loathed the thought of the wrester being Cheerio. She had fondly hoped to see her father in that desired role. Her heart coiled in tenderness about the crochetty, thorny old man, with his stumbling moves. She could not recall when her father had played so poorly or so uncertainly. He seemed to have lost all of his former skill. His confidence in himself as a chess player was completely gone. Anyone could have seen that after watching the old man play. Even the winning of one game might have a good effect and restore P. D.’s former confidence and craft. It was the daily absorption in the game, and the constant losing which was having its bad psychological effect upon him. Hilda knew that if P. D. failed to keep that Chicago engagement, he would suffer
