“Only four balls left!” cries the shark. “Well, I’m done for; my luck’s dead out, I can see. Tell you what, though; it’s bound to change; I’ll wager a sovereign on each of the last four.”
You or I would know that this was the time to put up your cue and say good evening, before he started making the balls advance in column of route dressed from the front, and even the little greenhorn thought hard about it; but hang it, you could see him thinking, I’ve potted eight out of eleven – surely I’ll get at least two of those remaining.
So he said very well, and I waited to see the shark slam the four balls away in as many shots. But he had weighed up his man’s purse, and decided on a really good plucking, and after pocketing the first ball with a long double that made the greenhorn’s jaw drop, the shark made a miscue on his next stroke. Now when you foul at pyramids, one of the potted balls is put back on the table, so there were four still to go at. So it went on, the shark potting a ball and collecting a quid, and then fouling – damning his own clumsiness, of course – so that the ball was re-spotted again. It could go on all night, and the look of horror on the little greenhorn’s face was a sight to see. He tried desperately to pot the balls himself, but somehow he always found himself making his shots from a stiff position against the cushion, or with the four colours all lying badly; he could make nothing of it. The shark took fifteen pounds off him before dropping the last ball – off three cushions, just for swank – and then dusted his fancy weskit, thanked the flat with a leer, and sauntered off whistling and calling the waiter for champagne.
The little gudgeon was standing woebegone, holding his limp purse. I thought of speeding him on his way with a taunt or two, and then I had a sudden bright idea.
“Cleaned out, Snooks?” says I. He started, eyed me suspiciously, and then stuck his purse in his pocket and turned to the door.
“Hold on,” says I. “I’m not a Captain Sharp; you needn’t run away. He rooked you properly, didn’t he?”
He stopped, flushing. “I suppose he did. What is it to you?”
“Oh, nothing at all. I just thought you might care for a drink to drown your sorrows.”
He gave me a wary look; you could see him thinking, here’s another of them.
“I thank you, no,” says he, and added: “I have no money left whatever.”
“I’d be surprised if you had,” says I, “but fortunately I have. Hey, waiter.”
The boy was looking nonplussed, as though he wanted to go out into the street and weep over his lost fifteen quid, but at the same time not averse to some manly comfort from this cheery chap. Even Tom Hughes allowed I could charm when I wanted to, and in two minutes I had him looking into a brandy glass, and soon after that we were chatting away like old companions.
He was a foreigner, doing the tour, I gathered, in the care of some tutor from whom he had managed to slip away to have a peep at the flesh-pots of London. The depths of depravity for him, it seemed, was a billiard-room, so he had made for this one and been quickly inveigled and fleeced.
“At least it has been a lesson to me,” says he, with that queer formal gravity which a man so often uses in speaking a language not his own. “But how am I to explain my empty purse to Dr Winter? What will he think?”
“Depends how coarse an imagination he’s got,” says I. “You needn’t fret about him; he’ll be so glad to get you back safe and sound, I doubt if he’ll ask too many questions.”
“That is true,” says my lad, thoughtfully. “He will fear for his own position. Why, he has been a negligent guardian, has he not?”
“Dam’ slack,” says I. “The devil with him. Drink up, boy, and confusion to Dr Winter.”
You may wonder why I was buying drink and being pleasant to this flat; it was just a whim I had dreamed up to be even with Cutts. I poured a little more into my new acquaintance, and got him quite merry, and then, with an eye on the table where Cutts was trimming up Speed, and gloating over it, I says to the youth:
“I tell you what, though, my son, it won’t do for the sporting name of Old England if you creep back home without some credit. I can’t put the fifteen sovs back in your pocket, but I’ll tell you what – just do as I tell you, and I’ll see that you win a game before you walk out of this hall.”
“Ah, no – that, no,” says he. “I have played enough; once is sufficient – besides, I tell you, I have no more money.”
“Gammon,” says I. “Who’s talking about money? You’d like to win a match, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, but …” says he, and the wary look was back in his eye. I slapped him on the knee, jolly old Flash.
“Leave it to me,” says I. “What, man, it’s just in fun. I’ll get you a game with a pal of mine, and you’ll trim him up, see if you don’t.”
“But I am the sorriest player,” cries he. “How can I beat your friend?”
“You ain’t as bad as you think you are,” says I. “Depend on it. Now just sit there a moment.”
I slipped over to one of the markers whom I knew well. “Joe,” says I, “give me a shaved ball, will you?”
“What’s that, cap’n?” says he. “There’s no such thing in this ’ouse.”
“Don’t fudge me, Joe. I know better. Come on, man, it’s just for a lark, I tell you. No money, no rooking.”
He looked doubtful, but after a moment he went behind his counter and came back with a set of billiard pills. “Spot’s the boy,” says he. “But mind, Cap’n Flashman, no nonsense, on your honour.”
“Trust me,” says I, and went back to our table. “Now, Sam Snooks, just you pop those about for a moment.” He was looking quite perky, I noticed, what with the booze and, I suspect, a fairly bouncy little spirit under his mamma’s boy exterior. He seemed to have forgotten his fleecing at any rate, and was staring about him at the fellows playing at nearby tables, some in flowery weskits and tall hats and enormous whiskers, others in the new fantastic coloured shirts that were coming in just then, with death’s heads and frogs and serpents all over them; our little novice was drinking it all in, listening to the chatter and laughter, and watching the waiters weave in and out with their trays, and the markers calling off the breaks. I suppose it’s something to see, if you’re a bumpkin.
I went over to where Cutts was just demolishing Speed, and as the pink ball went away, I says:
“There’s no holding you tonight, Cutts, old fellow. Just my luck, when my eye’s out, to meet first you and then that little terror in the corner yonder.”
“What, have you been browned again?” says he, looking round. “Oh, my stars, never by that, though, surely? Why, he’s not out of leading-strings, by the looks of him.”
“Think so?” says I. “He’ll give you twenty in the hundred, any day.”
Well, of course, that settled it, with a conceited pup like Cutts; nothing would do but he must come over, with his toadies in his wake, making great uproar and guffawing, and offer to make a game with my little greenhorn.
“Just for love, mind,” says I, in case Joe the marker was watching, but Cutts wouldn’t have it; insisted on a bob a point, and I had to promise to stand good for my man, who shied away as soon as cash was mentioned. He was pretty tipsy by now, or I doubt if I’d have got him to stay at the table, for he was a timid squirt, even in drink, and the bustling and cat-calling of the fellows made him nervous. I rolled him the plain ball, and away they went, Cutts chalking his cue with a flourish and winking to his pals.
You’ve probably never seen a shaved ball used – but then, you wouldn’t know it if you had. The trick is simple; your sharp takes an ordinary ball beforehand, and gets a craftsman