THE BATTLE
Mallow spun around, stared for a moment, then grinned evilly. "Here's our crow at last, Craig."
"Speaking of birds of ill-repute, the crow passes his admiration to the kite and the vulture." Warrington spoke coolly.
"Hey, boy; the chit!" called Mallow.
"No, no," protested Warrington; "by all means finish the game. I've all the time in the world."
Mallow looked at Craig, who scowled back. He was beginning to grow weary at the sight of Warrington, bobbing up here, bobbing up there, always with a subtle menace.
"What's the odds?" said Mallow jovially.
"Only twenty points to go. Your shot."
Craig chalked his cue and scored a run of five. Mallow ran three, missed and swore amiably. Craig got the balls into a corner and finished his string.
"That'll be five pounds," he said.