Old P. D. scratched his chin and pinched his lower lip as he examined the board through his glasses. Cheerio was not looking at the board, his sad, somewhat stern glance was pinned upon Hilda.
There was a pause, and suddenly P. D.’s face jerked forward. A crafty twitch of the left eyebrow. He glanced up at Cheerio, moved a Bishop three paces to the right. Cheerio withdrew his eyes reluctantly from the drooping Hilda, looked absently at the board and made the obvious move. Instantly P. D.’s hand shot toward his Queen. A pause, and then suddenly through the room, like the pop of a gun, P. D.’s shout resounded:
“Check!”
Pause.
“Check!”
This time louder.
“Check to your King, sir! Game! Game!” Up leaped P. D. McPherson, sprang toward his opponent, smashed him upon the shoulder, gripped him by both hands, and shouted:
“Beat you! By Gad! I’d rather beat you than go to Chicago. Damn your hands and feet, you’re a dashed damned fine player, and it’s an honour to beat you, sir! Come along with me, sir!”
He dragged his opponent out, and arm and arm they hurried across to the bunkhouse to proclaim the “damnfine news” and to order all hands of the O Bar O to set out on the following morning upon that annual Fall round-up which had been put off for so long. But before Cheerio had left the room, and even while her father was all but embracing him, his glance had gone straight into the eyes of Hilda, pale as death and slowly arising.
Like one moving in sleep, feeling her way as she passed, Hilda McPherson followed her father and Cheerio. But she could go no farther than the verandah. There she sat crouched down on the steps, her face in her hands, overwhelmed by the unbearable pain that seemed to clutch at her heart. The truth had shocked Hilda into a realization of the inexcusable wrong and insult that she had dealt to this man. No words were needed. She comprehended exactly what had happened in that room. Cheerio, she now knew, had changed the men on the board for her father’s advantage. And she had called him a cheat!