CHAPTER XVII — JIMMY REMEMBERS SOMETHING
The game between Hargate and Lord Dreever was still in progress when Jimmy returned to the billiard-room. A glance at the board showed that the score was seventy—sixty-nine, in favor of spot.
"Good game," said Jimmy. "Who's spot?"
"I am," said his lordship, missing an easy cannon. For some reason, he appeared in high spirits. "Hargate's been going great guns. I was eleven ahead a moment ago, but he made a break of twelve."
Lord Dreever belonged to the class of billiard-players to whom a double-figure break is a thing to be noted and greeted with respect.
"Fluky," muttered the silent Hargate, deprecatingly. This was a long speech for him. Since their meeting at Paddington station, Jimmy had seldom heard him utter anything beyond a monosyllable.
"Not a bit of it, dear old son," said Lord Dreever, handsomely. "You're coming on like a two-year-old. I sha'n't be able to give you twenty in a hundred much longer."
He went to a side-table, and mixed himself a whiskey-and-soda, singing a brief extract from musical comedy as he did so. There could be no shadow of doubt that he was finding life good. For the past few days, and particularly that afternoon, he had been rather noticeably ill at ease. Jimmy had seen him hanging about the terrace at half-past five, and had thought that he looked like a mute at a funeral. But now, only a few hours later, he was beaming on the world, and chirping like a bird.
The game moved jerkily along. Jimmy took a seat, and watched. The score mounted slowly. Lord Dreever was bad, but Hargate was worse. At length, in the eighties, his lordship struck a brilliant vein. When he had finished his break, his score was ninety-five. Hargate, who had profited by a series of misses on his opponent's part, had reached ninety-six.