“I knew you couldn’t,” exclaimed that worthy.
“I know I can do it,” said Stephen, excitedly. “Let’s try again.”
After a few more trials he made the two clear-boards, and Mr Cripps was duly astonished and impressed.
“That’s what I call smart play,” said he. “Now, if I was a betting man, I’d wager a sixpence you couldn’t do it again.”
“Yes, I can, but I won’t bet,” said Stephen. He did do it again, and Mr Cripps said it was a good job for him the young swell didn’t bet, or he would have lost his sixpence. Stephen was triumphant.
How long he would have gone on showing off his prowess to the admiring landlord of the Cockchafer, and how far he might have advanced in the art of public-house bagatelle, I cannot say, but the sudden striking of a clock and the entry of visitors into the room reminded him where he was.
“I must go back now,” he said, hurriedly.
“Must you? Well, come again soon. I’ve a great fancy to learn that there stoke. I’m a born fool at bagatelle. What do you say to another ginger-beer before you go?”
Stephen said “Thank you,” and then taking the newspaper in his hand bade Cripps good-bye.
“Good-bye, my fine young fellow. You’re one of the right sort, you are. No stuck-up nonsense about you. That’s why I fancy you. Bye-bye. My love to Mr Loman.”