“Oh, just a little—for a rough chap like me. One has so much time out at sea.”
“Oh, well, we’ll have just one game. How many pieces shall I give you?”
“Oh, I should think you ought to give me half,” was the reply.
“Very well,” said Fitz cavalierly; “take half. I used to be a pretty good fist at this at school. Where’s your board?”
Poole thrust his hand under the cabin-table and turned a couple of buttons, setting free a stiff piece of mill-board upon which a sheet of white paper had been pasted and the squares neatly marked out and blacked.
The pieces were placed, and the game began, with Fitz, after his bandage had been re-moistened, supporting himself upon his left elbow to move his pieces with his right hand, which somehow seemed to have forgotten its cunning, for with double the draughts his cool matter-of-fact adversary beat him easily.
“Yes,” said Fitz, rather pettishly; “I’m a bit out of practice, and my head feels thick.”
“Sure to,” said Poole, “knocked about as you were. Have some more pieces this time.”
“Oh no!” said Fitz, “I can beat you easily like this if I take more care.”
The pieces were set once more, and Fitz played his best, but he once more lost.