The older boy was a persistent cigarette smoker, and laughed at Phil for refusing to imitate him.
“I’ve tried it,” said Phil, quietly, “but I don’t like the things. To me there’s no fun in smoking.”
After office hours Eric often pleaded with Phil to go to the hotel and play pool with him. Mr. Daring had always had a pool and billiard table in a large room in the attic of his house, and he had taught all his children to play. None of them, however, cared especially for the amusement, and his father’s wisdom was evident when Phil now revolted from a game at the hotel.
“I’m not a good player, Eric,” he said, “and I can’t imagine anyone loafing in that grimy, smoky room just to play a game of pool. What’s the fun in it?”
Mr. Spaythe strongly objected to billiards and pool. He had even reproved Wallace Daring, at times, for having a table in his house. Eric had been sternly forbidden to play, and for that reason those stealthy games at the hotel possessed for the young man the attraction of forbidden fruit.
“Fun!” he retorted; “why, there’s lots of fun in pool. We play for the drinks, you know, and I can beat nearly every fellow in the village. When the farmers’ sons come in, they’re dead easy; there are always some of them around the hotel, and they’re proud to play with me because I’m the banker’s son.”
“Then play with them,” advised Phil. “I don’t drink, as you know, and I’d be poor company for you.”
Eric shook his head sadly.
“You’ll never amount to much in the world, Phil, with those namby-pamby ideas of yours.”
“I don’t consider them namby-pamby ideas, Eric; I simply don’t care for the things you do.”