“Well, I’d like to get in a shot,” said the Captain, “before the game is over. Perhaps we had better make it a hundred and fifty, if Mr. Malooney has no objection.” “Whatever you think right, sir,” said Rory Malooney. Malooney finished his break for twenty-two, leaving himself hanging over the middle pocket and the red tucked up in baulk. “Nothing plays a hundred and eight,” said Dick. “When I want the score,” said the Captain, “I’ll ask for it.” “Beg pardon, sir,” said Dick. “I hate a noisy game,” said the Captain. The Captain, making up his mind without much waste of time, sent his ball under the cushion, six inches outside baulk. “What will I do here?” asked Malooney. “I don’t know what you will do,” said the Captain; “I’m waiting to see.” Owing to the position of the ball, Malooney was unable to employ his whole strength. All he did that turn was to pocket the Captain’s ball and leave himself under the bottom cushion, four inches from the red. The Captain said a nautical word, and gave another miss. Malooney squared up to the balls for the third time. They flew before him, panic-stricken. They banged against one another, came back and hit one another again for no reason whatever. The red, in particular, Malooney had succeeded apparently in frightening out of its wits. It is a stupid ball, generally speaking, our red—its one idea to get under a cushion and watch the game. With Malooney it soon found it was safe nowhere on the table. Its only hope was pockets. I may have been mistaken, my eye may have been deceived by the rapidity of the play, but it seemed to me that the red never waited to be hit. When it saw Malooney’s ball coming for it at the rate of forty miles an hour, it just made for the nearest pocket. It rushed round the table looking for pockets. If in its excitement, it passed an empty pocket, it turned back and crawled in. There were times when in its terror it jumped the table and took shelter under the sofa or behind the sideboard. One began to feel sorry for the red. The Captain had scored a legitimate thirty-eight, and Malooney had given him twenty-four, when it really seemed as if the Captain’s chance had come. I could have scored myself as the balls were then. “Sixty-two plays one hundred and twenty-eight. Now then, Captain, game in your hands,” said Dick. We gathered round. The children left their play. It was a pretty picture: the bright young faces, eager with expectation, the old worn veteran squinting down his cue, as if afraid that watching Malooney’s play might have given it the squirms. “Now follow this,” I whispered to Malooney. “Don’t notice merely what he does, but try and understand why he does it. Any fool—after a little practice, that is—can hit a ball. But why do you hit it? What happens after you’ve hit it? What—” “Hush,” said Dick. The Captain drew his cue back and gently pushed it forward. “Pretty stroke,” I whispered to Malooney; “now, that’s the sort—”