He was no pinger. Nor was he a pongster. But for billiards he had a
decided taste, a genuine taste, not the pumped-up affectation sometimes
displayed by boys of his age. Considering his age he was a remarkable
player. Later on in life it appeared likely that he would have the
choice of three professions open to him, namely, professional billiard
player, billiard marker, and billiard sharp. At each of the three he
showed distinct promise. He was not 'lured to the green cloth' by Monk
or Danvers. Indeed, if there had been any luring to be done, it is
probable that he would have done it, and not they. Neither Monk nor
Danvers was in his confidence in the matter. Billiards is not a cheap
amusement. By the end of his sixth week Farnie was reduced to a single
pound, a sum which, for one of his tastes, was practically poverty. And
just at the moment when he was least able to bear up against it, Fate
dealt him one of its nastiest blows. He was playing a fifty up against
a friendly but unskilful farmer at the 'Cow and Cornflower'. 'Better
look out,' he said, as his opponent effected a somewhat rustic stroke,
'you'll be cutting the cloth in a second.' The farmer grunted, missed
by inches, and retired, leaving the red ball in the jaws of the pocket,
and Farnie with three to make to win.

It was an absurdly easy stroke, and the Bishop's uncle took it with an
absurd amount of conceit and carelessness. Hardly troubling to aim, he
struck his ball. The cue slid off in one direction, the ball rolled
sluggishly in another. And when the cue had finished its run, the
smooth green surface of the table was marred by a jagged and unsightly
cut. There was another young man gone wrong!

To say that the farmer laughed would be to express the matter feebly.
That his young opponent, who had been irritating him unspeakably since
the beginning of the game with advice and criticism, should have done