Our Reserve Battalion has a billiard-room, which is well patronised
by all those cheerful souls who have escaped from France without
permanent injury and resignedly await the second call.
To-night the "Tap-room" is in top form. A four-handed game of snooker
is in as rapid progress as is reasonably possible. Every easy-chair
is filled with a would-be player offering gratuitous advice in order
to speed things up. A young war-scarred Captain is balanced on a
rickety side-table, offering odds on the game in a raucous voice.
The Mess-waiter strives to be in three places at once. Through all,
the players, totally unnerved, play with a desperate attempt at
concentration.
Suddenly the door opens, and the Colonel enters, heated and out of
breath. His eye pierces through the tobacco smoke and transfixes the
unhappy bookmaker. He requests him to take advantage of his position
to open a window. The players examine the tips of their cues in sudden
silence. The Colonel refuses the offer of six vacated chairs with a
slightly impatient negative and inquires as to the probable length
of the game. He accepts the obvious untruth that it has just ended,
smiles with satisfaction, and proposes to the Adjutant a game of one
hundred up.
The Colonel, after examining the cues with marked disapproval,
eventually selects one of short length and pronounced weight. He
then appropriates for his sole personal use the only piece of chalk,
demands the spot ball, places it in position, and endeavours to cast
his opponent's ball into a baulk pocket with a rapid back-hander. The
Adjutant sprints round the table in pursuit.
The Colonel next addresses his own ball and propels it violently
against the red, which, taken completely by surprise, bounds with a
strong resilience from the top cushion, courses twice up and down the
table and comes to a pause in the neighbourhood of the middle pocket.
The Colonel tests the elasticity of the cushion with his thumb and
gives way a foot to enable his opponent to begin a neat break of
twenty-seven.
The Colonel, finding time hanging heavily on his hands, devotes this
period to filling his pipe from a borrowed pouch; he then tramps
determinedly back to the table and is about to pocket the red from
a point of considerable vantage, when the Adjutant deferentially
suggests that he is about to play with the wrong ball. The Colonel
immediately strides round the table to where his command is clinging
to the cushion, lifts the ball to convince himself that there is a
spot on its surface, plants it back in a slightly more favourable
position, and with one thrust of his cue projects it into open
country. He then leaves the table without awaiting the result and
resumes his pipe.
The Adjutant now compiles a fifteen break, pauses, notices the
Colonel's inattention, and with typical lack of true discipline
pots his opponent's ball and leaves the others in baulk. A horrified
silence ensues. The Colonel, without noticing the delicacy of the
situation, playfully slopes his "hipe" and marches back to the table.
The awful truth is instantly laid bare. The colour of his face becomes
of an imperial shade. He dumbly fumbles for his ball, which, with a
last bid for exemption, eludes his fingers and rolls under the table.
Taking advantage of this the Colonel, with one glance of concentrated
hate in the direction of his opponent, grapples with his choler, and
by the time that his ball is returned under escort, has partially
recovered himself. He is determined to show to his subalterns the
value of coolness in an emergency. He places his ball with infinite
care and walks round the table to examine the position from every
point of view. His next move is to mark out elaborate angles with
the assistance of chalk marks on the cushions. Having finally formed
all his plans, he encourages his artillery with a few more rounds of
chalk, approaches the field with studied and dignified calm, delivers
his attack, and retires to watch the effect from his O. Pip.
His command, flying desperately across the open, loses direction,
blunders hopelessly into an obstruction on the flank, retires in
confusion, and makes a blind despairing dash for a shell-crater.
Missing this by a fraction it loses all interest in life, wanders
pitifully off at an unnatural angle, runs into the hostile force of
the Adjutant, and comes finally into contact with the red.
The Colonel hastens to remark to the enthusiastic audience that this
cannon only proves the possibilities of the noble game when accuracy
is achieved. It is calculated to improve their marksmanship, to teach
them to grasp an opportunity, to apply their tactical training, and to
render them cool in the hour of crisis.
Inspired by this truth he attempts to pull off an awkward losing
hazard. This effort is ruined by an appalling miscue which affects the
new cloth. The Colonel justly blames the chalk, removes the pet-dog
of the battalion from his path with his foot, and makes for the
scoring-board. The volunteer marker inadvertently puts the Colonel's
modest score on to the large total of the Adjutant.
At this critical moment an orderly fortunately arrives with a note
from the Brigade office. The Colonel secures the missive, tears the
envelope to shreds, runs his eye over the trivial contents, and
curses the War. He then assumes an air of enormous importance, excuses
himself, and stamps out into the night.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Ancient Heroine_. "IT'S BEEN A TRYIN' TIME FOR ME,
MRS. BLOGGS. MY SAVIN'S-BANK BOOK WAS UP IN LUNNON ALL THROUGH THE
AIR-RAID."]
* * * * *
"It may be the bravery of ignorance that induces us to take
this point of view, but the locality excuses ignorance to
some extent, and the bravery still exists: Ovid has a line
that might be learnt with advantage by our readers--
"'Falliker augurio, spes bona saepe sus.'"--_Nigerian Pioneer_.
We do not recall this line in OVID; but the locality is notoriously
unfavourable to Latin quotation. As HORACE says, _Hic Niger est; hunc
tu, Romane, caveto_.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Officer_. "WANT A NEW MESS-TIN, DO YOU? WHERE'S YOUR
OLD ONE?"
_Private_. "I HAVEN'T GOT IT, SIR." _Officer._ "WHY NOT?"
_Private_. "PLEASE, SIR, THERE'S A CHATEAU ON TOP OF IT, SIR."]
* * * * *