“Believe it was!” said Hilda. “Don’t you know when you were there?”
“Well—” began Cheerio, miserably, “you see——”
He was interrupted by P. D., whose exasperated glare turned from his son to his daughter.
“Is this a game of chess, or a quiz concerning international questions touching upon the infernal recent war?”
“Chess, by all means, sir.” Thus Cheerio, placatingly, and with evident relief at the change of subject. To Sandy, he promised:
“Tell you all about Germany some day, old man, wh-wh-when I’m f-ff-feeling a b-bit more f-fit to tackle the s-ssubject.” To P. D. persuasively:
“How about it, governor? It’s quite fair under the circumstances that I should yield you something. What do you say to a Castle? One will do me first-rate.”
“Sir, when I want quarter, I’ll ask for it. I’ll have you know that I have never yet taken a dashed flippity handicap and when the time comes for me to do that, by Gad! I’ll cease to play. I play, sir, chess, and I want no damned favouritism. I’ll be placed under no G—D—oblig—D—igation to any man.”
“Righto! Your move, sir.”
P. D. was indeed off his game. He was, moreover, the victim of a creeping panic. He made longer pauses, debated a move for a solid hour, in the meanwhile moving (in his head) every single man upon the board; imagine their effect in such and such a position, then presupposing a move which his opponent never intended to make, with a crafty quiver of a bushy eyebrow old P. D. would move to the attack, when the position of his King called for defense.