"Is it true that you induced my son to join this club?"
"Certainly. I heard what he could do from a man I had confidence in,
and I said to myself, We must have young Saunders for a member."
"Then don't you think you are largely to blame?"
"Oh, if you like to put it that way; yes. Still I'm the chief loser. I
lose ten thousand by him."
"Good God!" cried the stricken father.
The banker looked at the old man a little nervously, as if he feared
his head was not exactly right. Then he said: "Of course you will be
anxious to see how the thing ends. Come in with me, but be careful the
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.
Hammond mixed among the crowd, and spoke eagerly now to one, now to
another. Old Saunders said to the man next him--
"What is it all about? Is this an important match?"
"Important! You bet it is. I suppose there's more money on this game
than was ever put on a billiard match before. Why, Jule Hammond alone
has ten thousand on Saunders."
The old man gave a quivering sigh of relief. He was beginning to
understand. The ten thousand, then, was not the figures of a
defalcation.
"Yes," continued the other, "it's the great match for the cup. There's
been a series of games, and this is the culminating one. Prognor has
won one, and Saunders one; now this game settles it. Prognor is the man
of the High Fliers' Club. He's a good one. Saunders won the cup for
this club last year, so they can't kick much if they lose it now.
They've never had a man to touch Saunders in this club since it began.
I doubt if there's another amateur like him in this country. He's a man
to be proud of, although he seemed to go to pieces to-night. They'll
all be down on him to-morrow if they lose their money, although he
don't make anything one way or another. I believe it's the high betting
that's made him so anxious and spoiled his play."
"Hush, hush!" was whispered around the room. Young Saunders had begun
to play. Prognor stood by with a superior smile on his lips. He was
certain to go out when his turn came again.
Saunders played very carefully, taking no risks, and his father watched
him with absorbed, breathless interest. Though he knew nothing of the
game he soon began to see how points were made. The boy never looked up
from the green cloth and the balls. He stepped around the table to his
different positions without hurry, and yet without undue tardiness. All
eyes were fastened on his play, and there was not a sound in the large
room but the ever-recurring click-click of the balls. The father
marvelled at the almost magical command the player had over the ivory
spheres. They came and went, rebounded and struck, seemingly because he
willed this result or that. There was a dexterity of touch, and
accurate measurement of force, a correct estimate of angles, a truth of
the eye, and a muscular control that left the old man amazed that the
combination of all these delicate niceties were concentrated in one
person, and that person his own son.
At last two of the balls lay close together, and the young man, playing
very deftly, appeared to be able to keep them in that position as if he
might go on scoring indefinitely. He went on in this way for some time,
when suddenly the silence was broken by Prognor crying out--
"I don't call that billiards. It's baby play."
Instantly there was an uproar. Saunders grounded his cue on the floor
and stood calmly amidst the storm, his eyes fixed on the green cloth.
There were shouts of "You were not interrupted," "That's for the umpire
to decide," "Play your game, Saunders," "Don't be bluffed." The old man
stood up with the rest, and his natural combativeness urged him to take
part in the fray and call for fair play. The umpire rose and demanded
order. When the tumult had subsided, he sat down. Some of the High
Fliers, however, cried, "Decision! Decision!"
"There is nothing to decide," said the umpire, severely. "Go on with
your play, Mr. Saunders."
Then young Saunders did a thing that took away the breath of his
friends. He deliberately struck the balls with his cue ball and
scattered them far and wide. A simultaneous sigh seemed to rise from
the breasts of the True Blues.
"That is magnificent, but it is not war," said the man beside old
Saunders. "He has no right to throw away a single chance when he is so
far behind."
"Oh, he's not so far behind. Look at the score," put in a man on the
right.
Saunders carefully nursed the balls up together once more, scored off
them for a while, and again he struck them far apart. This he did three
times. He apparently seemed bent on showing how completely he had the
table under his control. Suddenly a great cheer broke out, and young
Saunders rested as before without taking his eyes from the cloth.
"What does that mean?" cried the old man excitedly, with dry lips.
"Why, don't you see? He's tied the score. I imagine this is almost an
unprecedented run. I believe he's got Prognor on toast, if you ask me."
Hammond came up with flushed face, and grasped the old man by the arm
with a vigour that made him wince.
"Did you ever see anything grander than that?" he said, under cover of
the momentary applause. "I'm willing to lose my ten thousand now
without a murmur. You see, you are a mascot after all."
The old man was too much excited to speak, but he hoped the boy would
take no more chances. Again came the click-click of the balls. The
father was pleased to see that Dick played now with all the care and
caution he had observed at first. The silence became intense, almost
painful. Every man leaned forward and scarcely breathed.
All at once Prognor strode down to the billiard-table and stretched his
hand across it. A cheer shook the ceiling. The cup would remain on its
black marble pedestal. Saunders had won. He took the outstretched hand
of his defeated opponent, and the building rang again.
Banker Hammond pushed his way through the congratulating crowd and
smote the winner cordially on the shoulder.
"That was a great run, Dick, my boy. The old man was your mascot. Your
luck changed the moment he came in. Your father had his eye on you all
the time."
"What!" cried Dick, with a jump.
A flush came over his pale face as he caught his father's eye, although
the old man's glance was kindly enough.
"I'm very proud of you, my son," said his father, when at last he
reached him. "It takes skill and pluck and nerve to win a contest like
that. I'm off now; I want to tell your mother about it."
"Wait a moment, father, and we'll walk home together," said Dick.