“We,” said the hammer-man in his ponderous way, “are fate. Arbiters of our destinies! We succeed, or we don’t. And when we fail, it is we that fail. Fate hasn’t anything to do with it.” “Maybe you’re right,” assented Bob. “I don’t know. Anyhow, it’s a test of true sportsmanship to know how to lose.” “Not to whine, you mean? True. But it’s better not to lose. Now go ahead and try to beat me.” Bob tried his best. He let the other name the game and the number of points, and for a time it was nip and tuck. Once Bob ran a string of seventy. Then the hammer-thrower made one hundred and one. His playing was brilliant. Some of the heaviness seemed to have departed from his big frame. His steps nearly matched Bob’s for litheness while his big fingers handled the cue almost daintily. All the inner force of the man seemed focused on the task of winning. He had made up his mind he couldn’t lose. Bob was equally determined, too, not to lose. The game seemed symbolical of that bigger game they were playing as adversaries, and more and more Bob realized here was an opponent not to be despised. He was resourceful, delicate, subtle, as he permitted Bob now to gaze behind that shield of heaviness. He had never before exhibited his real self at the table, playing heretofore in ponderous fashion, but this time, perhaps, he experienced a secret delight in tantalizing an enemy. Those big fingers seemed capable of administering a pretty hard squeeze when the hour arrived; they might even not hesitate at a death-clutch. The game now was very close. “Shall we make it a thousand for the winner?” suggested the hammer-thrower. “Haven’t that much,” said Bob. “Only got about seven dollars and a half, or so.” “I’ll bet you seven dollars and a half, then.” Bob accepted, and immediately had a run of luck. He was within two points of being out. The hammer-thrower had about fifty to go. “Get that seven dollars and a half ready,” he said easily as he began his play. “Maybe I shan’t have to,” replied Bob. “Yes, you will.” He spoke as one not capable of making mistakes about what he could do. And he didn’t make a mistake this time. He ran out. Bob paid with as good grace as he could. Then the hammer-thrower moved heavily away and left Bob alone. The latter didn’t feel quite so jubilant now over his secret knowledge as he had a little earlier. The hammer-thrower had permitted him to test his mettle—indeed, he had deliberately put himself out to do so, and make Bob realize even more thoroughly that he might just about as well not know anything for all the good it would do him (Bob). His lips might as well be sealed, as far as his being able to prove anything; if he did speak, people would answer as the hammer-thrower had. “Mad!” Or worse! That sanatorium incident was certainly unfortunate.