"I am," I said. "Came here recently."
"I wonder if there's any chance of a game of billiards."
"I'm afraid not," I said. "Table's shocking. I'm having it all done up afresh, and then—"
"What's it matter?" said he. "I don't care. It's something to do, and one can't go out."
"Well," I said, "if that's the case, I'll give you a game, sir. But I'm no flyer at it at the best of times, and I'm all out of practice now."
"I'm no good myself. No good at all. And I'd be glad of the game."
At the billiard-room door I told him I'd fetch a couple of decent cues. He nodded and went in.
When I came back with my cue and Harry's, I found the gas lit and the blinds drawn, and he was already knocking the balls about.
"You've been quick, sir," I said, and offered him Harry's cue. But he refused and said he would keep the one he had taken from the rack. Harry would have sworn if he had found that I had lent his cue to a stranger, so I thought that was just as well. Still, it seemed to me that a man who took a twisted cue by preference was not likely to be an expert.
The table was bad, but not so bad as Harry had made out. The luck was all my side. I was fairly ashamed of the flukes I made, one after the other. He said nothing, but gave a short, loud laugh once or twice—it was a nasty-sounding laugh. I was at thirty-seven when he was nine, and I put on eleven more at my next visit and thought I had left him nothing.