This was more to Max’s taste, and, after Grant had been summoned to help light the lamps, Kenneth shut the door, chuckling to himself about the big beating he was going to give the Londoner, who, instead of taking a cue, was gazing round the handsome billiard-room at the crossed claymores, targes, and heads of red deer, whose antlers formed rests for spears and specimens of weapons from all parts of the world.
“Are those swords sharp?” asked Max.
“Sharp? Yes, I should think they are. They’re the claymores my ancestors used to handle to cut off the heads of the Macleods and Macdougals.”
“Used there to be much fighting then?”
“Fighting? I should think there was. Every chief lived in a castle and had a galley, and they used to fill them half full of pipers and half full of fighting men, and go to war with their neighbours.”
“It must have been very terrible.”
“Not a bit of it. Very jolly—much better than living in these tame times. Come along; you break.”
Max played first, and handled his cue so easily that Kenneth stared.
“Hallo!” he said, “you’ve played before.”
“Yes; we have a billiard-table at home.”