The game proceeded—badly enough on the part of Hugo, who was generally a skilful player. He fouled or missed so many shots that his form presently became a scandal. “Phew!” whistled his opponent, after a peculiarly villainous attempt; “what’s gone wrong with you?”
The young man laughed vexedly; then, in a sudden transition to violence, threw his cue from him so that it clattered on the floor.
“I can’t play for nuts,” he said. “You must get somebody else.”
“Hugh,” said his friend, after a moment or two of silence, “there’s something weighing on your mind.”
“Is there?” cried the other jeeringly. “I wonder.”
“What is it? You needn’t tell me.”
“O! thank you for that. I tell you what, Viv: I dreamed last night I was sitting on a barrel of gunpowder and smoking a cigarette, and the sparks dropped all about. Didn’t I? That’s what I feel, anyhow. Nerves, all nerves, my boy. O! shut up that long mug, and talk of something else. I told you I was off colour when I wrote.”
“I know you did, and I came down.”
“Good man. You’ll be in at the kill. There’s going to be a most infernal explosion—pyrotechnics galore. Or isn’t there? Never mind.”
He appeared to Bickerdike to be in an extraordinary state, verging on the hysterical. But no more was said, and in a few moments they parted to dress for dinner.