Poor Mr. Colson! He was painfully nervous. His nervousness prevented his showing even his usual form. He had made fifteen, when Mr. Johns, getting on the spot, stayed there. He ran out without once putting down his cue. Nothing like it had ever been seen before in Ahmednugger. When the marker notified the fact that Mr. Johns had completed his fifth hundred, Mr. Colson was, for a moment, speechless. He seemed unable to realize that the thing was so.
"It's a--something swindle!"
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Colson--it's a what?"
Mr. Colson's tone was loud and threatening. Mr. Johns' tone was quiet, and almost indifferent. Yet Mr. Colson did not seem to altogether like it. He began to bluster. "You did not tell me that you were a professional."
"No; I did not tell you that I was a professional."
"You didn't play the other night as you have played to-day. It looks to me uncommonly like a put-up thing."
"It looks to you like a put-up thing, does it, Mr. Colson. Well, I'll give you a chance of showing your professional side. I believe you can drive?"
"Drive!" Mr. Colson looked at the little man as if he would like to eat him. "I'm the finest whip in India."
"Indeed! Is that so? Well, I'll drive you either four, or eight, in hand, for a thousand rupees a side, although you are the finest whip in India."
Mr. Colson snapped at his offer, before it was fairly out of his mouth, and I felt that Mr. Johns was going a little too far. It was one thing to match him at billiards, another thing to match him at driving. There Mr. Colson was on his native heath. When I was alone with Mr. Johns I told him so.