So, when another game commenced, the young landscape-painter, who had spent at least as much of his short life at those boards of green cloth called "public tables" as in studying the verdant hues of nature, made one of the combatants, and not a little astonished them by his performance. He had the eye of a hawk, with the litheness of a young panther; and his prudence during the late debauch had preserved his steadiness of hand. Mr. Theodore Fane had the misfortune to be his immediate predecessor, and was "potted" at long distances. "By Jove!" exclaimed he, sulkily, upon losing his last life by a double, "you must have lived by your wits, young gentleman, to have learned to play pool like that." "I have," returned Yorke, without moving a muscle, and preparing to strike again. "You will come to do the same, if you play much at this game--but your sad end will not be protracted. You will starve to death with considerable rapidity." "My dear Mr. Yorke," said Byam Ryll, approvingly, "you have won my heart, though I can't afford to let you win my sovereigns; I like you, but I must kill you off, I see." "Unless--" said Yorke. "Unless what?" inquired Ryll, as he made his stroke at Yorke's ball, which was quite safe, and grazed it with his own, which, gliding off another ball, found its way into a pocket. For once, he had really allowed himself to be "put off" his aim. "Unless you commit suicide," replied the young fellow, smiling. "I was about to warn you of the danger of that kiss." "You are worse than a highway robber, young Sir," said the annoyed old gentleman. "That's true," returned Yorke, "for I take your money and your 'life.'" The young fellow repaid his loan that night, besides putting half a dozen sovereigns into his own pocket; and there was other fruit from that investment. Carew was delighted with his son's skill, though his wit was somewhat wasted on him. "Why the deuce did you not play in the first game?" said he, when the party broke up to adjourn to the hazard-table. "I suppose it was your confounded cunning" (and here his face grew dark, as though with some recollection of the past); "you wanted to see how they played before you pitted yourself against them--did you? How like, how like!" "I had no money, Sir, until Parson Whymper lent me some." "Oh, that was it--was it?" said the Squire. "Well, well, that was not your fault, lad, nor shall it be mine--here, catch," and out of his breeches-pocket he took a roll of crumpled notes and flung them at him; then suddenly turned upon his heels, with what sounded like a muttered execration at his own folly.