about an hour. He did not show much promise. He is a powerfully
built young man, and he didn't seem able to get it into his head that
he wasn't playing cricket. Whenever he hit a little low the result
was generally lost ball. To save time--and damage to furniture--Dick
and I fielded for him. Dick stood at long-stop, and I was short
slip. It was dangerous work, however, and when Dick had caught him
out twice running, we agreed that we had won, and took him in to tea.
In the evening--none of the rest of us being keen to try our luck a
second time--the Captain said, that just for the joke of the thing he
would give Malooney eighty-five and play him a hundred up. To
confess the truth, I find no particular fun myself in playing
billiards with the Captain. The game consists, as far as I am
concerned, in walking round the table, throwing him back the balls,
and saying "Good!" By the time my turn comes I don't seem to care
what happens: everything seems against me. He is a kind old
gentleman and he means well, but the tone in which he says "Hard
lines!" whenever I miss an easy stroke irritates me. I feel I'd like
to throw the balls at his head and fling the table out of window. I
suppose it is that I am in a fretful state of mind, but the mere way
in which he chalks his cue aggravates me. He carries his own chalk
in his waistcoat pocket--as if our chalk wasn't good enough for him--
and when he has finished chalking, he smooths the tip round with his
finger and thumb and taps the cue against the table. "Oh! go on with
the game," I want to say to him; "don't be so full of tricks."


The Captain led off with a miss in baulk. Malooney gripped his cue,
drew in a deep breath, and let fly. The result was ten: a cannon
and all three balls in the same pocket. As a matter of fact he made
the cannon twice; but the second time, as we explained to him, of