Andrew surmised that they were not playing for mere amusement.
"You can't do it, Dick!" Whitney said; and his tone was restraining, while Andrew imagined that Williamson's was meant to be provocative.
Dick raised his glass and put it down again half empty before he poised his cue.
"Watch me!"
He made the cannon; but something in his hot face suggested that it had been a nervous strain, and he turned to the table at once to refill his glass.
"Now," he said, "I think the game is mine."
His play was clever, but Andrew, watching closely, imagined that Williamson was not doing quite his best. It was difficult to say what gave him the impression, but he was a judge of matters that needed accurate judgment and steadiness of hand. Williamson was cool and skilful, but he missed a cannon he ought to have made, and there was a break he bungled. It looked as if he did not want to win. That was curious, for Andrew did not think he felt any hesitation about taking Dick's money.
Dick reached out for his glass without turning round, and Whitney, standing behind him, neatly struck the bottle with his elbow in stepping back. It rolled across the table, upsetting the glass, and fell upon the floor.
"I'm sorry," he apologized simply.
Dick regarded him with an ironical grin. "I'll have to ring for another," he said.