Hot stuff.

The Billiard Times. February, 1914

By the Galleryite

His name was Smythe, which he would have let you know is a very different thing from Smith. But in essentials he was a lineal descendant of Mr. Winkle; he had that entertaining gentleman’s passion to excel in sport, and it was a passion which had in the past led to some excessively awkward moments for Mr. Reginald Smythe.

In all other respects he was a most estimable gentleman, moving in excellent society. He had come down to shoot— Mr. Smythe Lad a rather hazy idea what he was going to shoot— at his friend Major Locksley’s place in Sussex. Mr. Smythe’s outfit was singularly complete, and lie was prepared to shoot “whatever is in reason,” as he had informed a friend. If it had been May, and he was asked to come partridge shooting, he would have responded with a bland cheerfulness.

But on the Tuesday the shooting was so greatly interfered with by rain that was real rain that the house party had to play auction bridge as a solace, and when that palled the suggestion was made that an hour in the billiard room would be just the thing.

“Suppose we have a ‘foursome’?” said the Major.

“There is Teddy Jackson, and Morris, and I don’t mind having a go myself. Who will be my partner?”

Now, as Mr. Smythe’s fate would have it, there was no offer to make up the quartet. With unusual prudence Mr. Smythe himself kept silent, and proceeded to discuss the Futurist movement with the elder Miss Locksley. He knew nothing about the Futurist movement, but a fact like that did not often deter M r. Reginald Smythe. He had a fatal tendency to discuss matters he knew nothing about. It was a supreme disgrace, in the eyes of Mr. Reginald Smythe, to admit that there was any subject of which he was ignorant.

“Surely you play, Smythe?” asked the Major.

There was just a fluttering of sense and prudence in Smythe’s brain which urged him to say “No,” and to say it in a way that would indicate that he refrained from playing billiards because it was such an easy game. But he couldn’t do it.

“Yes, oh yes,” he said;” a little, you know. Out of practice as a matter of fact, Major, but I used to knock ’em about a bit.”

“Well, you will be my partner, then,” said the Major, affably. “I expect you will put us all to shame.”

“Smythe is one of those all-round men,” said Teddy Jackson.

“Very hot indeed, I should think, with a cue,” murmured Morris.

Mr. Smythe basked in the genial warmth of such praise, and he knew that Miss Locksley was glancing at him with admiring eyes. Yes, dash it all, he was very hot, and billiards had always seemed to him a game that he could master at once. The last shred of prudence left him, and he expanded.

“Well, you know best,” he said, not caring to deny the eminently pleasing assertion that he was hot stuff.

“I suppose I was passably good once. I remember once playing a youngster in the ‘Blues’ for a fiver-a-side at Snooker. Let me see, that was the game when I made 50 odd off the red.”

“At Snooker?” said the Major, with polite surprise.

Mr. Smythe caught the hint of incredulity in the voice, and had a nasty sensation that he had said something silly.

“Not the usual Snooker,” he replied. “We played under our special rules at the old Gloucester club.”

“Oh, I see,” and the Major’s voice was rather curt.

“Well, suppose we make a start.”

“Shall we string for lead?” said Morris to Smythe, who was now exceedingly unhappy, for there were many people in the billiard room, including Miss Locksley, and Smythe felt acutely that he was in deep waters.

“No,” he said with genial firmness, “I always allow m y partner to string.”

“Why?” asked Morris, and again the palpitating Smythe heard that horrid note of surprise.

“Oh, no particular reason. If you insist,” he laughed uneasily, “I will certainly have a string.” He had just recollected with a sense of profound thankfulness what the phrase meant.

He strung. It was a fine hit, and Mr. Smythe’s ball, after going twice up and down the table, came to rest almost dead on the baulk cushion.

“A most excellent start,” said the Major, who had only seen the last part of the ball’s tiring journey. “Most excellent indeed.”

Again Mr. Reginald Smythe expanded. He had been right. Billiards was a foolishly easy game.

“You had bad luck, Morris,” he said with just a trace of patronage in his voice. “Perhaps if you put a little more muscle in the stroke——– ”

But Morris had turned away. After all, there are limits to human endurance.

The gam e was called “50 all,” and of the 50 scored by the Major and Smythe the former had contributed 44. His partner had got the other six, but he had given eight away, the reason being that the poor quality of the chalk had caused his cue tip to become unreliable. He bore these annoyances with creditable cheerfulness, and he was so little upset that he continued to give advice to the Major in the friendliest manner possible.

“A trifle weak on the long ones, Major,” he said, “but you will get over that. We shall win easily, I think, for really I have hardly started yet. Why, dash it all, I haven’t scored 25 points yet. This chalk is frankly beastly, old man— you don’t mind me mentioning it?”

“Not at all” — the Major appeared to be struggling with a strong pent-up emotion.

Smythe was left with the cue ball well out of reach. He made a graceful attempt to reach the ball, but only succeeded in falling forward on the table.

“Half-butt, sir?” asked the marker.

“It was all-but,” said Smythe, “no half-but about it.”

There was a partially suppressed yell from Jackson, and Smythe looked puzzled. H ad he said anything clever? He knew he was noted for his happy faculty of thinking out a bon mot. He smiled. They were dull fellows except Jackson.

He made a remarkable six-shot a little later after a mis-cue.

“That was odd,” said Morris.

“No, it was even— a six-shot,” replied Smythe, and this time he knew he had said a smart thing, for Jackson was not the only one to laugh. But why was he smart? Six was certainly not an odd number.

The Major still continued to do the scoring for himself and his partner. With the gam e getting exciting he was faced with a distinctly awkward position. He surveyed the leave from all points, and then announced “I shall go for the short jenny.”

“No, no, Major, I will get it for you,” affably said Smythe. “Here it is,” and he handed his partner the short rest.

“Your humour is out of place, sir,” said the Major; he positively snorted.

And Reginald Smythe had not attempted to be humorous; merely obliging, that was all. Frankly, he was hurt.

He did not reply; that would not be the act of a gentleman, he considered. But at his next visit to the table he made a break of ten, and, moreover, he made it with one stroke. “I have been waiting for that position to come up ever since we started,” he said. “Years ago I would back myself to get ten off it every time.”

“I ’ll bet you would,” said Jackson, in a voice that was non-committal.

The Major and Smythe required only four for game, and Smythe got them. Most people would have contended that it was a fluke, for the two white balls, so fierce was the contact, spun into the air; one of them fell on the red and was deflected into the pocket, the other did a catherine wheel movement and cannoned on to the red.

Four cues were put into the rack amid silence, and then the Major spoke. There was feeling in his voice.

“Morris, by Jove you were right, he is hot stuff indeed.”

And Smythe said to himself, “You are great, young feller my lad.”