The old man was too much excited to speak, but he hoped the boy would take no more chances. Again came the click-click of the balls. The father was pleased to see that Dick played now with all the care and caution he had observed at first. The silence became intense, almost painful. Every man leaned forward and scarcely breathed.
All at once Prognor strode down to the billiard-table and stretched his hand across it. A cheer shook the ceiling. The cup would remain on its black marble pedestal. Saunders had won. He took the outstretched hand of his defeated opponent, and the building rang again.
Banker Hammond pushed his way through the congratulating crowd and smote the winner cordially on the shoulder.
"That was a great run, Dick, my boy. The old man was your mascot. Your luck changed the moment he came in. Your father had his eye on you all the time."
"What!" cried Dick, with a jump.
A flush came over his pale face as he caught his father's eye, although the old man's glance was kindly enough.
"I'm very proud of you, my son," said his father, when at last he reached him. "It takes skill and pluck and nerve to win a contest like that. I'm off now; I want to tell your mother about it."
"Wait a moment, father, and we'll walk home together," said Dick.
THE BROMLEY GIBBERTS STORY.
The room in which John Shorely edited the Weekly Sponge was not luxuriously furnished, but it was comfortable. A few pictures decorated the walls, mostly black and white drawings by artists who were so unfortunate as to be compelled to work for the Sponge on the cheap. Magazines and papers were littered all about, chiefly American in their origin, for Shorely had been brought up in the editorial school which teaches that it is cheaper to steal from a foreign publication than waste good money on original contributions. You clipped out the story; changed New York to London; Boston or Philadelphia to Manchester or Liverpool, and there you were.