R. (with dignity): “I’m Roberts.”
B.M. (genially): “Doesn’t matter, sir, who you are. I give fifty in a hundred to all the folks round here.”
R. (with increased dignity): “I’m Roberts, I tell you. The champion.”
B.M. (after a pause for consideration): “Oh, well, sir, if that’s so I can only give you thirty in a hundred.”
Speaking of billiards, I was once playing principal comedian at the Prince of Wales’ Theatre, Birmingham, when Inman and Stevenson—the latter of whom was then world’s champion—were there, and we got very pally together.
At this period George Gray had just come over from Australia, and was creating a big sensation in billiard circles by his wonderful breaks off the red.
I noticed that whenever I introduced either Stevenson or Inman to anybody, the first words they uttered almost invariably were, “What do you think of George Gray?”
Now it happened that on the termination of my engagement in Birmingham the three of us, Stevenson, Inman, and myself, travelled up to London together. It was a corridor train, and quite a number of “pro.’s” I knew were aboard it, though not in our compartment.
“Now look here, you two,” I said, “I’ll bet you five shillings a time that anybody I happen to present to you will ask you what you think of George Gray.”
“Agreed!” they said, and a minute or two later a man I knew happened along the corridor. I called him into our compartment, introduced him, and sure enough he promptly rapped out the usual question.