“Well, that English fly, the Cheerio Duke they call him, the one they picked off the road in July—he licked the pants off P. D.”
“You don’t say. Him! Why, he’s nothing but a tenderfoot. He don’t know nothing.”
“Don’t he, though! That’s where you’re off your bat. What he don’t know, ain’t worth knowing, believe me.”
“Well, you hear all sorts o’ tales about him. Who is he, anyway?”
“Dunno, and nobody else does. But one thing’s sure, he licked P. D. Licked him the first time they played, and he’s kept it up every night since. They’s a bet on. He’s to hold his job till P. D. licks him, and from the looks of things ’pears like he’s got a permanent job. And say—I heard that the old man ses he ain’t goin’ over to the States to play for championship there until he’s trimmed Cheerio chap.”
“I want to know! The Calgary Blizzard had a whole column ’bout him goin’ over to the States to beat the Champion there.”
“Well, he’s got his hands full right here.”
“Guess I’ll ride over and take a look-in at O Bar.”
“Not a chance. Say, the old man’s sore as a dog. Ain’t lettin’ a soul into the house. Has himself shut in and ain’t taking a bite of air and hardly any eats. Just gone plumb crazy on that chess game. It’s something like checkers, only it ain’t the same. You got to use your nut to play it.”
“Well, here’s to old P. D. Hope he wins.”