Playing Snooker for a Bishopric.
BILLIARDS ILLUSTRATED. March 9, 1910
The Duke of Landport is not strikingly generous, by any means, whatever other virtues he may possess. That he has ability on certain lines not even his enemies have ever denied; that he is of ancient family and long descent everybody freely acknowledges. But he is so mean that, whilst he takes greedily all that he can get from his sources of income, he can seldom be prevailed upon to return any portion of it in smaller doles to those from whom it has really come, or to bestow any gift worth mentioning for the benefit of the scores of people who are his tenants and dependents.
“You are a trifle late, Archdeacon,” he said with a touch of sarcasm to the tall, cheery, good-looking clergyman who entered into his presence on a lovely June afternoon at Charlton Castle. “The time arranged for was 3.30, not 3.45!”
It was an inauspicious beginning, as the Ven. Archdeacon knew full well. He had come on an important mission, and he had expected difficulty in any case. But this unavoidable lateness of his had made it worse, for the Duke was a stickler for punctuality, and seldom forgave anyone who kept him waiting.
“I must offer my sincere apologies, your Grace,” replied the cleric. “My carriage broke down six miles away from here, or I should have been early enough for you. I’m sorry for the delay.”
The Duke’s shaggy brows and heavy features became a little less clouded on hearing the explanation. He motioned his visitor to a chair on the opposite side of the table, and waited until the clergyman was comfortably ensconced therein. Then he turned his dark, sunken eyes, quick and alert as they ever were, full on the other man.
“You wished to see me about something important?” he said.
” That is so. I wished to ask your Grace to consider very favourably the scheme I have instituted for the full, restoration of the cathedral church of this diocese. The cost, as you perhaps know, will be at least five thousand pounds, and it seems to me imperative that we should see exactly what our own landed nobles and gentry of the district are willing to contribute towards this ere we ask aid outside. I do trust, therefore, that your Grace will give a generous response to the appeal, so as to put us in a good position at the start. May I rely on your Grace’s moral and practical support of this scheme?”
“You can have my moral support with pleasure, my dear sir!” said the Duke, with a scornful laugh. “But if, by practical support, you mean will I give you a sum, say a thousand pounds, or five hundred, or one hundred, towards this hare-brained restoration business, then you certainly will not get my practical support! I’ve something else to do with my money Chan giving it to keep up churches and lazy clergy!”
The Archdeacon rose in righteous anger. His own temper was not one of the most meek and mild kind, good man as he was and beloved by all his friends.
“Thank you, my lord Duke!” he exclaimed, with a touch of deep sarcasm. “Thank you! Then, as I’ve nothing else to urge, I need not detain such a generous man any longer!”
Thus the clergyman left the ducal presence without so much as a further good-bye, and his Grace the Duke of Landport smiled contemptuously as he watched his late visitor hurry along the terrace to his carriage.
“That’s another stalled off!” said he. “Somebody’s, always wanting something from a lord! But I flatter myself that they’ve got the wrong man in me for that!”
Now it may be that the Right Honourable the Prime Minister had heard of this encounter from the secret whispering of some little bird, such as is always found flying about high social circles. How it came to his ears will certainly never be! known, but that it did can hardly be doubted, in the light of what followed.
Archdeacon Cornell was somewhat surprised in the week following this discomfiture to receive a messenger at his London residence, who brought a note asking him to call at Downing Street three days later for a special interview with the Premier. The note did not indicate at all what the business in question might be; it merely commanded his attendance on the appointed day. So that it was with much anxious interest that the clergyman entered the reception-room of the Prime Minister on the morning arranged for ‘this meeting. He took the seat indicated by the Premier, close beside his own.
“Mr. Archdeacon,” began the Minister, when the two were alone, “I sent for you to confer on a matter of much importance. As you know, a certain valuable see is vacant, and we are wishful to make some definite appointment to it.”
The cleric was taken unexpectedly. He half-guessed, however, what was coming, and his heart beat furiously, whilst his blood seemed to be on fire. His face paled a little, but he contrived to keep his feelings and emotions well under control. He merely bent his head respectfully and nodded affirmatively.
“We have been looking round for a fitting successor to the late prelate,” continued the Premier, “and”—he paused significantly—”we have thought about you, Mr. Archdeacon.”
“You are exceedingly kind towards one who but little deserves such consideration,” was the reply, in a low, agitated voice. “Yet I———“
“But———-there is one slight difficulty meets us,” want on the Premier. “Doubtless you can. help us to overcome that, on which the way for your nomination to the bishopric will be clear, and it shall be then done at once.”
“May I ask what the difficulty is, sir?” inquired the clergyman. “I shall be only too pleased to do anything in my power to help you.”
The Prime Minister smiled, that quiet but knowing smile which most of his followers knew so well. The significance of it did not escape the clergyman’s keen eyes.
“The difficulty which confronts us at present is that of the dilapidated state of the cathedral. It would be unfair not to acknowledge how much you yourself have done for its renovation; what a noble scheme you have set on foot; how hard you have worked. But it is also clear that it would be most unreasonable to expect a new bishop to undertake such a great work immediately on his coming to the diocese; indeed the whole scheme might even fall through in such an event. Now, may I tell you what I propose? I am anxious to assist in the restoration of this fine cathedral, and I have interested myself much in the matter.”
“Your kindness is extreme,” murmured the other. “I have spoken to several friends who have promised to help generously. Indeed, towards the five thousand pounds required for the work, I have secured eight people who, including myself, have each agreed to contribute five hundred pounds to the fund an one condition.”
“And that is, sir?” asked the clergyman, as his companion paused and looked at him closely with a smile at the corners of his mouth.
“That you succeed in getting his Grace the Duke of Landport, who is the largest land owner round the city, to give you at least one thousand pounds to the fund, without his knowing of these other contributions.”
The Archdeacon’s face clouded, and he gazed for a moment at the Premier, as if uncertain whether this was a joke or not. Then he said slowly.
“And that condition fulfilled would clear the way for the bishopric?”
“Yes; you have my distinct promise! “
“How long do you propose to allow me to secure the Duke of Landport’s favour?” asked the other.
“A month,” was the answer. “We will keep the bishopric vacant a month longer, with the reversion of it to yourself under the condition stated. So will you please call here a month to-day, in order to report on your success with the Duke?”
* * * * *
“Ah! I fancy your Grace is much too good for me at this game,” said the Hon. Charley Hopewell to the Duke of Landport, at the Cowlton Club, as they put down their cues after an interesting game at snooker. “I’m sure we’ve nobody in the club who could beat your Grace either!”
His Grace of Landport smiled indulgently, quite self-satisfied and pleased at the compliment, for he always reckoned himself the best amateur player at snooker’s pool that he had met with during his wide experience of dub life.
“Landport is a fine snookerist, I’ll allow,” interrupted Lord Twickenham, who had been lazily watching the contest. “But he’s not the best player at it in this club, let alone outside!”
“Indeed!” replied the Duke, with a half-sneer at Twickenham’s remark. “And may I ask you, my lord, who can beat me?”
“Why, there’s that new member, Mr. Cyril Ruddens, an old friend of mine, who could beat your Grace, I think,” answered Twickenham.
“I should like to see him do it, sir! ” said the Duke, now a trifle upset at the idea, and thoroughly on his mettle. “I do not care to play for stakes, as a rule, but I think I might venture to back my skill against either your friend Mr. Rudden’s ability, or any one else’s, at snooker, in this club.”
“Ruddens doesn’t care to play for money either,” said his lordship, “but it would be such a grand match that it’s a pity to lose the opening. I’ll tell you what, your Grace, if Ruddens is agreeable—for naturally all depends on his consent to play—I’ll back him against you for the sum of one hundred pounds in the best aggregate total of two games at snooker.”
The Duke’s lip curled.
“I’ve no objection,” said he, “except that any man might have a run of luck for just two games, a run which would hardly prove his superiority over his opponent. It needs a series of games at snooker to establish one’s supremacy.”
“That is so, I’ll admit!” exclaimed the Hon. Charley Hopewell, reaching out for a match to light his cigar. “You should suggest a series of ten games, Twickenham, then I should be quite prepared to back his Grace against either your Ruddens or any other fellow here.”
Twickenham appeared to be reflecting deeply for a minute or two, then he said decisively.
“Well, I will, only the stakes must rise proportionately, of course; and ten games, say at £100 each, would make a stake of £1,000! Tell you what I’ll do—Ruddens agreeing—I’ll back him against the Duke, ten games, aggregate of points to be the deciding factor, for the sum of £1,000. Will you back his Grace at that, Charley?”
But before the Honourable Charley could reply the Duke himself spoke, somewhat heatedly, as Lord Twickenham had quite expected.
“I don’t wish any backer but myself,” said he scornfully; “and, as I declared before, I’m willing to play your friend, but I don’t suppose either he or I want the other’s money very badly.”
Lord Twickenham smiled quietly, he knew the Duke’s character and reputation well.
“Doubtless that is so,” he answered coolly. “Then let me propose another way. We’ll make it that the loser shall pay over the £1,000 to any charitable object that the winner decides on. Come now your Grace, that should meet your objection?”
The Duke could scarcely refuse further. And so it was at length put down in writing and signed by these concerned, that a match of ten games at snooker’s pool was to come off at the Cowlton Club in due course, between His Grace the Duke of Landport and Mr. Cyril Ruddens, the compiler of the highest number of points on the aggregate of the ten games to be declared the winner, and the loser to pay over the sum of £1,000 to any charitable object selected by the winner.
The match created the greatest interest amongst all the members of the club and their friends. Few of them knew the new member, Mr. Ruddens, who, when he appeared, was a rather fine-made, somewhat spare gentleman of about forty-eight years of age, with short side-whiskers and hair a trifle greyish. In his excellently fitting suit of evening dress, however, he seemed what he was, a thorough English gentleman of the best type, and his quiet, modest bearing pleased everybody in the crowded room.
They were more pleased when they saw the clever way he handled his cue, and the great ability he displayed in potting the balls or in snookering his noble opponent. The Duke played extremely well too, and gave his rival no quarter, yet somehow he could never get any wide space between his own score and that of Mr. Ruddens. Though once or twice his Grace made really capital breaks—one at least was twenty-six—yet the close of the first game found him but ten points ahead of the other man.
In the second trial Mr. Ruddens seemed to gain even more confidence, for he drew in front about half-way, and when it ended he was actually himself ten in front on the aggregate.
The third attempt, and the fourth and fifth, which closed the first meeting, were equally well contested, and the upshot of that half of the struggle was that Mr. Ruddens was leading by about a score of points.
The following week the two rivals again met to complete the match, and the attendance, crowded and enthusiastic, proved how wide was the interest felt in the struggle. News of it had by this time reached other famous clubs, and many folk tried to get leave to be present. But big as is the billiard-room at the Cowlton Club, it did not suffice to hold all who desired to be there on this occasion.
It was a ding-dong fight right through till the last game. At the close of the ninth the Duke was in front by two points, though a few spectators fancied that his opponent had not done his absolute best in that game. So the beginning of the last struggle in the series found even-body on the tip-toe of expectation.
Whatever may have been the cause, it is certain that Ruddens appeared to suddenly wake up and get going in earnest from the very start of that last lap. The way he potted the reds and the coloureds after them was a marvel. His exhibition was an eye-opener to everybody present, and finally he beat the Duke on the aggregate by no less than fifty-three points, and was duly declared the winner, amid loud applause.
Like a gentleman he held out his hand to his successful rival and congratulated him, whilst Mr. Ruddens expressed his regret that only one of them could win, and returned congratulations on the Duke’s fine play.
“And to what charity shall I make out the cheque for the money?” asked his Grace of the winner.
“Will you kindly see my friend, the Earl of Twickenham, about that, your Grace?” asked the other. “He has taken all that part of the affair off my hands.”
The Duke did as requested, and his lordship smiled as he listened.
“To the trustees for the restoration fund of the cathedral in your Grace’s city!” said the Earl. “I and my friends who are interested in the rebuilding of the cathedral have got Ruddens to make us a present of the money.”
The Duke stared in surprise, but he wrote out the cheque all the same. He simply said as he handed it over.
“I did not know you were such a strong supporter of the cathedral, my lord.”
“It was the Ven. Archdeacon Cornell who converted me and others to take an interest in the work,” was all Twickenham said, as he slipped the cheque into his pocket-book.
But as the great gathering went home, most men discussing the exciting points of the match, the Hon. Charley Hopewell, who walked along with his arm linked in Twickenham’s, burst out into a jolly laugh when they were alone in Hyde Park.
“By Jove, Twick,” he said, “but the idea was smart! Was it really the Archdeacon’s or yours?”
“Mine!” exclaimed the other man modestly, as he smiled.
“You see, the Archdeacon has long been a friend of ours, indeed, he and I were at Queen’s together in my Cambridge days. He was telling me of large sums he had been promised for the cathedral fund, if only the Duke of Landport could be drawn to contribute £1,000; and also of another great thing that would come off, about which you’ll hear later. But he didn’t see how to get that thousand. Then suddenly I remembered what a splendid player at snooker’s pool the Archdeacon used to be at Cambridge—and still is—for I knew he often had a game when at liberty; and I also recollected the Duke’s pride in his snooker play. Thus I got the idea, and finally arranged the match as you know.”
“That ‘Mr. Cyril Ruddens’ touch was great!” said Charley, with enthusiasm. “I feared the Duke might suspect or recognise your friend somewhere during the games.”
“Not he,” said Twickenham. “Did you ever see a man who looked less like a dignitary of the Church than Ruddens does in evening dress, eh?”
“Never! Archdeacon Cornell as Mr. Cyril Ruddens, the brilliant snooker player! By Jove, Twick, you’re a genius!”
“And, Charley, you’re an ass!” said his companion, clasping his hand warmly nevertheless.
* * * * *
On the appointed day the Premier received the Archdeacon in audience at Downing Street.
“Well, Mr. Archdeacon!” he exclaimed, eagerly and curiously, “have you to report success? Have you got the thousand pounds we spoke of from his Grace the Duke of Landport?”
“I have, sir,” said the clergyman, smiling, whilst the Prime Minister stared, in surprise and unbelief, for he had never before heard of anybody getting the said Duke to contribute a tithe of that to such a fund.
You have! Bless me! And however did you manage it?”
With many smiles and apologies the clergyman gave the Premier a detailed account of the great match at snooker’s pool. Then he placed before him, too, the cheque for £1,000, signed by the Duke.
The Minister’s laugh was hearty, and his face lit up with delight and appreciation of the joke.
“That beats all!” he said, as he shook the other’s hand in congratulation. “I never would have believed it could be done. I should have liked to see the match, and no mistake. Well, Mr. Archdeacon, a promise is something to be kept. So to-day you will be nominated for the vacant bishopric, and may heaven bless and prosper you and your work in that high post.”
Then as the Archdeacon, after humbly expressing his thanks, left the room, the Premier again burst out laughing.
“Winning a bishopric by snooker’s pool!” he exclaimed. “Well, that beats all!”
By George A. Wade