“A bit.”
A speck of colour came out on either of the old man’s high cheek bones.
“Very good, sir. We will have a game.”
“Awfully sorry, sir. I’d jolly well like a game, b-b-but the fact is, I’m—er—what you call in Canada—hiking.”
“Hiking—nothing,” muttered P. D., as he set his own side into place. “I allow you the Whites, sir. First move, if you please.”
“Awfully sorry, sir, b-but the fact is, I’m d-d-d-discharged, you know. Mr. Bully Bill here——”
“Damn Bully Bill! I’m the boss of the O Bar O! Your move, sir.”
Cheerio blinked, hesitated, and then lifted his pawn and set it two paces forward.
Slowly, carefully, P. D. responded with a black pawn in the same position.
Cheerio made no second move. He was leaning across the board, looking not at the chessmen but straight into the face of his employer.