boy doesn't catch sight of you. It might rattle him. I'll get you a
place at the back, where you can see without being seen."

They rose, and the banker led the way on tiptoe between the curtains
into a large room filled with silent men earnestly watching a player at
a billiard table in the centre of the apartment. Temporary seats had
been built around the walls, tier above tier, and every place was
taken. Saunders noticed his son standing near the table in his shirt-
sleeves, with his cue butt downward on the ground. His face was pale
and his lips compressed as he watched his opponent's play like a man
fascinated. Evidently his back was against the wall, and he was
fighting a hopeless fight, but was grit to the last.

Old Saunders only faintly understood the situation, but his whole
sympathy went out to his boy, and he felt an instinctive hatred of the
confident opponent who was knocking the balls about with a reckless
accuracy which was evidently bringing dismay to the hearts of at least
half the onlookers.

All at once there was a burst of applause, and the player stood up
straight with a laugh.

"By Jove!" cried the banker, "he's missed. Didn't put enough stick
behind it. That comes of being too blamed sure. Shouldn't wonder but
there is going to be a turn of luck. Perhaps you'll prove a mascot, Mr.
Saunders."

He placed the old man on an elevated seat at the back. There was a buzz
of talk as young Saunders stood there chalking his cue, apparently loth
to begin.