“Never had a chance.”
“Nor hunting, nor skating?”
“Never,” said Bar, “but I can shoot. I had to learn that.”
“I’d like to know where you’ve lived all your life,” remarked Val.
“Maybe I’ll tell you some day,” said Bar, seriously, “but I’d rather not just now.”
Val Manning was a gentleman, boy as he was; and he colored to his ears as he replied:
“There, now, beg your pardon. Mother told me I mustn’t ask you any questions. Come on into the billiard-room and I’ll teach you how to play. Father never wants me to go to a public billiard-hall, you know, so he has a tip-top table here at home. Plays himself sometimes, when the sick people give him a chance. Come on.”
Bar followed his young host into the neat and cozy apartment in the third story to which he led the way, and he felt a species of awe come over him as he passed one evidence after another of what plenty of money can do for the home of such a man as Dr. Manning.
Val picked up a cue and Bar listened in silence to the very clear and practical sort of lecture that followed on the rudiments of the game.
“Suppose we play one now,” said Bar, “and you can tell me more as we go along.”