They drew up to the table and arranged the chess board. Zack stood waiting for the goblets, having no intention to leave these treacherous exhibits again at large should a spirit of fatigue overtake the players. So there was a prolonged pause while the men fortified themselves for the coming fray, and when the Colonel noisily sucked the very last drop through the cooling ice—and took a piece of this in his mouth to crunch—he leaned back with a sigh of satisfaction. Zack, as he walked slowly away, also sighed, but it held a curious mixture of perplexity and anticipation: perplexity, because Brent had scarcely drunk a third of his julep, and anticipation for an obvious reason.
"All the same," the engineer announced when they were alone, "Bip is too young!"
"Of course, he's too young," the Colonel heartily agreed. "Anybody's too young, or too old, or too something, when it comes to being third person on such a pleasant prospect. I would stand no intrusion, sir!"
"I didn't mean just that," Brent flushed.
"Certainly not, you altruistic and good natured liar," the old gentleman chuckled. "Come, sir; here goes pawn to King four! Now be on your guard!"
"To King four," Brent replied, leaning over and pushing out his own King's pawn.
They had not been playing many minutes when the Colonel, pausing to light a cigar, looked up with a start of surprise. Brent wheeled about and there stood Tom Hewlet, swaying awkwardly and weeping. It was uncanny the way he had approached so near without being heard.
"Well, Tom," the Colonel asked sharply, "what do you want?"
"I just want to call it quits, Cunnel. I ain't done nuthin' to be locked up for!"
"You're very drunk," the old gentleman thundered. "I'm surprised you would approach my place in such a condition!"