He chews that over a minute or so, and concludes that he has, a Dr. Jason Craige, who’s right here in town.
“He’s the real thing, is he?” says I.
“Most skillful oculist in the country,” says Pinckney, “and charges accordingly.”
“As high as fifty a throw?” says I.
“Fifty!” says Pinckney. “You should see his Cliff Walk cottage.”
“Let’s,” says I. “There’s a friend of mine I’d like to have him take a look at to-morrow.”
“No use,” says Pinckney. “He drops his practice entirely during his vacation; wouldn’t treat an Emperor then, I’ve heard him say. He’s a good deal of a crank on that—and billiards.”
“But see here, Pinckney,” says I, and I goes on to give him the whole tale about Beany, puttin’ it over as strong as I knew how.
“Sorry,” says Pinckney; “but I know of no way in which I could induce him to change his custom. He’s Scotch, you know, and as obstinate as—— Hold on, Shorty! I’ve an idea. How strong will you back my game of billiards?”
Now of all the erratic cue performers I ever watched, Pinckney gets the medal. There’s times when he can nurse ’em along the cushion and run up quite a string, and then again I’ve seen him play a game any duffer’d be ashamed of. But I begins to smell out his scheme.