I was playing Tom Reece in a week's match at Burroughes and Watts at the top of St James's Street. Although I was conceding Tom 2,000 in an 8,000 match I had little difficulty in overhauling him, but when I was at the table needing only about another 100 points to win the match I was astonished to see Tom putting on his overcoat - and, as I continued to tap the balls round the table, he left the room. The spectators hardly knew whether to watch me or Tom. While I was putting the finishing touches to my winning break Tom trotted up the stairs out into Piccadilly and walked slowly across the road. As he did so he heard the applause break out to mark the completion of the break, at which point he perched his hat on his umbrella, held it up in the air and stood in the middle of Piccadilly shouting: 'Hurray, Davis has beaten old Reece.'
Tom was an extraordinary man, but then, to adapt Shakespeare somewhat, so were they all, all extraordinary men.
I fear that one man's account of those halcyon days, written largely as a chronicle of his own career, is in danger of failing to do justice to the fascinating and widely different personalities who helped to populate the scene. They were not shadowy, cardboard cut-out bit-players but colourful and sometimes comic principal actors in their own right, and the drama of the billiards and snooker world was often relieved by humorous or bizarre interludes in which they figured.
The longest-running doubt act was that between Reece and Mel Inman whose characters were as far apart as their birth places, Oldham and Twickenham respectively, and whose styles of play reflected their different personalities. Their life-long rivalry began in 1903 with a match of 16,000 up for £100 a side. Young Inman was already noted for his stubborn tactics, ruthless methods and his magnificent last-ditch recoveries. Reece, in comparison - who was forever coining a yet-more-vicious phrase to describe his rival's 'agricultural' play - was a delicate stroke player. War was declared between them by the fourth day of this match. With the scores almost level Inman played sixteen consecutive misses and Reece fifteen. A day or so later Inman gave ten consecutive misses and Reece nine; it was always Reece who, frustrated, decided to have a go. This first struggle produced a pattern and a result that was often to be repeated over the years in the Reece - Inman duels; Reece led within 400 points of victory - but it was the fighting 'Twickenham Terrier' who won.
Although Mel was champion six times in the golden Stevenson - Inman - Reece era of the First World War he, curiously, failed to record a four-figure break. But he more than compensated for this in the money that he took in his matches. In the five weeks of the 1919 championship, for instance, which he won, Thurston's took £5,000. And there were now-legendary takings of £1,800 in the following year for a challenge match between Mel and Willie Smith - called because Mel had not entered the championship that year and Willie had won it by beating Claude Falkiner. A fortnight before the Smith - Inman meeting every seat at Thurston's was sold. Large sums were wagered and the card was called each night at the Victoria Club. At first Inman was 11-10 on, which reduced to 7-4 on when he was in the lead by 1,000 points. But after a week Willie led by 2,000 and eventually won by 5,000 or so. It was really the end of an era.
In the Reece - Inman matches, Mel won, I think, partly because of his qualities of perseverance - but equally because of Reece's hopeless billiards temperament. If things were going badly for him he would literally refuse to talk to anyone for days at a time.
They genuinely disliked each other and were always bitter antagonists at the table, but to some extent they played to the gallery with their theatrical rudeness and cross-talk. As a matter of course, they bickered before every match about the financial and physical conditions under which they were going to play. They argued about which set of ivories they would use, which make of cloth the table should have, or the precise colour of the red. Ivories has to be dyed and before one match Inman insisted that the red ball should be tomato coloured - to which Reece replied: "Look, we're not running a greengrocer's shop."
Nor did they fall out only with one another. On one occasion Inman complained that the carpet was so dirty that his shoes looked as if they had just been worn on a trip across the Sahara desert and that the dust was disturbing his concentration. Once, when playing badly, Reece also blamed dust and told the manager of Thurston's, Sidney Gillett, that he ought to vacuum his carpets more often.
He hated to lose to anybody. I recall a match that he arranged with me in Harrogate quite early in my career, a match for which I was duly grateful. My gratitude did not, however, extend to letting Tom use me as a tailor's dummy in an exhibition by him and I made good use of the liberal start which he had granted me. After some pretty good play on my part in the first session, he never spoke to me again for the rest of the week. I was romping home and, in the final session, was within a few hundred of the requisite number of points when Tom jumped to his feet, picked up the billiard-balls and, astonishingly, put them in his pocket. He then turned to say goodnight to the spectators - though not to me - and left the hall to return home.
Perhaps the most famous story o fthe legendary Reece-Inman duels occurred in October 1910 after Inman had beaten Reece in the semi-final of the championship. Nevertheless Tom put in an appearance on the last night of the final in which Inman was playing Harry Stevenson. Inman was an easy winner and went up to Lord Alverston, then the president of the Billiards Association, to receive the trophy. As it happened, that same week Lord Alverston had sentenced Crippen to death for the murder of his wife. As he was congratulating Mel and handing over the cup Reece leapt to his feet and, in full hearing of the Thurston spectators, said: "Excuse me, my Lord. But if you knew as much as I do about Inman, you would have given Crippen the cup and sentenced Inman to death."
Mel himself was no slouch when it came to impromptu shafts of wit. At one time Tom Reece announced that he intended to swim the English Channel; he was a great swimmer and trained with a young American lady, Annette Kellerman, who made a Channel bid. Shortly afterwards, for some reason, Inman was asked what were his unfulfilled ambitions. Rapidly he answered that the first was to swim the Channel before Reece and that the second was to have sexual intercourse with a policewoman - while she was on duty.
Again, there was the time when two urchins were watching a Reece-Inman battle through a half-open doorway. While Reece was compiling a substantial break the lads could contain themselves no longer. "Put it across him, Tommy", yelled one. Quick as a flash Inman retorted: "Would you mind asking your friends to be quiet, Mr Reece."
Even better was the time when Reece was amassing his huge pendulum break against Inman. After a time he straightened up and, pointing to Mel, who was glumly sitting it out, said to the referee: "That man ought to pay to come in. He's just a spectator."
Mel, like Willie Smith, drove a car in those early days when to do so was quite a status symbol, certainly among professional players. But, like many another driver of the time, who had never had to undergo the formality of a driving test, he was at least half under the control of the car rather than in control of it. One night he left a club where he had been playing, having been entertained lavishly - as usual, since he was always popular with spectators and had a wonderful style with an anecdote. Driving home along a dark road in the early hours he came across a long line of red lamps warning that road repairs were underway and, at the end of the line, a small workman's hut, at the door of which sat the night watchman warming his hands over a brazier. Mel ploughed into the first lamp and swerved - but not sufficiently for he proceeded to demolish every one of the lamps before managing to slow almost to a halt on apporaching the hut. As he changed gear to drive off into the night he shouted to the furious watchmen: 'I've taken all the reds. Now where are the colours?'
One reason for there being such frequent money matches struck between Reece and Inman despite their mutual antagonism was that they both claimed legions of bookmaker friends. This was not unconnected with the fact that they were both horse racing enthusiasts. Tom was close friends with the great jockey Steve Donoghue and between them they put some excellent tips my way, particularly in the Lincoln and in the Derby which Steve won six times. Mel went one step further than Tom - of course - and actually bought a couple of horses. He felt it added to his image and would provide good publicity, at least if the horses won. The trusty steeds, for which he paid out good money, he called Twickenham, for obvious reasons, and Tom Webster after his friend Tom Webster, the billiards expert and Daily Mail cartoonist, who caricatured him so mercilessly and so often. (Tom always said that his cartoons had immortalised Mel, but Mel used to retort that it was he who had been the making of Tom Webster!)
Mel rapidly discovered, however, that the cost of keeping racehorses did not end with their purchase. The next thing he had to do was to engage a trainer, a man named Rintoil, who immediately decided to send the horses up to Warwick races as this was a good venue for a horse to gain racecourse experience. The Inman entries performed perfectly adequately, though without being amongst the prize money, and Rintoil soon afterwards sent Mel the bill for the expenses in connection with the Warwick meeting. The total, at the foot of a very short and inexplicit invoice, so horrified Mel that he at once rang up Rintoil for further elucidation.
'Well,' said the trainer, 'we box them at my stables, then we transfer them to a train at St Pancras, and of course I have to send two men to look after them on the train, at Warwick and on the way back again....'
'Yes, yes,' interrupted Mel, 'I know all that. But do the two lads and both horses have to travel in the first-class dining car?'
After this, it came as no surprise to learn that Mel's flirtation with horse owning was of short duration. But he was involved in all manner of other enterprises with a variety of people around the West End. I am sure that his brother pros never got to know the half of them but one business which was fully known about was the Empire Club, beneath the Criterion in Piccadilly Circus, which he opened with a fellow called Chapman. It was beautifully appointed, with four billiard-tables as the centrepiece, but it also sported all the other money-making appointments such as restaurants, card rooms and bars. One novelty was that each billiard-table had as its marker an attractive girl, dressed in pink satin breeches and jackets, with black silk stockings and perky little hats; they were, I suppose, the billiard-room Bunny girls of the day. The club, not surprisingly for such a prime location, became very popular and successful until one night a member became obstreperous and began a row. Chapman, Inman's partner, was a strapping fellow and entered the fray personally. Soon blows were exchanged during which the awkward member fell, struck his head on a radiator, and died. A subsequent court case gave the club a welter of unwanted publicity and business fell off sharply, forcing Chapman and Inman to throw in the towel and sell up. I never found out what happened to the handsome tables, nor what happened to the pretty markers. One thing is for sure; none of them ever became ladies' champion.
Not that I am decrying women players; far from it. There have been some very good ones indeed. Among the professionals Joyce Gardner, a lady with a severely correct style, was probably the best known. In fact she won the first ladies' professional billiards championship in 1930 and held it for three years until Ruth Harrison took it over. Ruth did a great deal of missionary work for women's billiards, her very stylish game owing a great deal to Willie Smith who coached her for a time. At snooker she was particularly strong. After taking the billiards title from Joyce in 1934 - 5 she lost it to her again before retrieving it in 1939. Thelma Carpenter, who had been three times amateur champion before turning professional, won a new title in 1940 but there was then no contest until she took the title again in 1948-50, since which time no pro billiards or snooker championships for ladies have been held. Thelma was always good to watch: tall and slim with the figure of a mannequin. And she played good billiards as well.
It seems to me odd that the ladies' championship should have lapsed, since ladies are taking a much greater interest than ever before in snooker, if not in billiards. BBC TV's Pot Black programme, especially in colour, is in my view, almost wholly responsible; the beautiful green cloth and the sparkling coloured balls make the game a fascinating spectacle. It is a pity that playing facilities for ladies are not provided to the same extent as they are in men's clubs of all types - especially since billiard-rooms in houses are nowadays such a rarity that only a very few ladies have any opportunity of playing in private.
I often used to think that I could make a great commercial killing if I could discover an attractive young lady whom I could train to such a level that she could appear before the public. I was not sure that women were psychologically suitable for the laborious amount of practice that would be required and I was positive that the physical attributes of this dream lady would not be conducive to a classic cueing stance. Nevertheless I am sure that the paying customers would have flocked to her exhibitions! I once thought that Lynd Joyce, of ITMA fame, would have been near-perfect. I saw her thrash a good player in a London club one night after I had been involved in a match. But she was already a promising actress at that time and I could hardly expect her to give up fifteen years or so to practising billiards - the time I considered necessary to turn a good amateur into a top pro. And here I ran up against the biggest stumbling block of all: if my protégée was as devastating as I hoped, it would not be long before some predatory male snapped her up in marriage. And that would have been that - for me and for her. So my advice to Mrs Worthington is: don't put your daughter into snooker.
I suppose that the legendary bearded figure of John Roberts, Senior, set the style for eccentricity which has characterised the game ever since. There was, for instance, the occasion in 1846 when, as a young man of twenty, he played a match against a Glaswegian amateur. The match lasted for forty-three hours and during it Roberts acted as marker and spot-boy into the bargain. Nevertheless it was the Scotsman who eventually collapsed from exhaustion after completing 125 games of 100 up.
John Roberts, Junior, his son, followed in the great tradition. A story is told of his speaking quietly but obviously reprovingly to the referee half way through an important match. After the session a friend of the referee, who was watching the match, asked what he had done to occasion this reproof. The referee answered: 'Oh, it was simply that Mr Roberts had noticed that his handkerchief was untidily placed in his pocket and was annoyed that I had not pointed it out to him.'
But even in this company one of the most unusual chaps in the billiards firmament must surely have been Arthur Goundrill. At the battle of Ypres in the First World War Arthur lost his left arm up to the elbow, yet afterwards continued refereeing and giving exhibitions. He was a very good-looking fellow with a bright personality and built up an extensive repertoire of patter and trick shots.
He was justly proud of the fact that he gave a Royal 'command' exhibition at Buckingham Palace on May 4th, 1921, the first player ever to do so, and always thereafter wore the gold and enamel tie-pin presented to him by King George V to mark the occasion.
Arthur's exhibitions did not, however, always have such a satisfactory conclusion. Not long afterwards he was refereeing an Inman - Reece exhibition in a club in Liverpool, at the end of which the players asked him to give the spectators a taste of his trick shots. This he did, but in playing a very deep screw shot, making a bridge over the bend with his elbow, the cue spilled over and tore a bad gash in the cloth - a new cloth put on specially for the earlier exhibition. Arthur was naturally very upset and embarrassed. But the members also felt very badly about it and were sorry for Arthur, especially since the memories of men's sacrifices in the war were still so fresh. So, to ease the pain all round, they held an impromptu collection for him - not bad considering he had just ruined their cloth!
Arthur's abilities were not confined to speciality shots; he was able to give most people a very good game of billiards or snooker, his personal records being 235 at billiards and 66 at snooker. To see Arthur playing a screw-back, bringing the cue ball back as smoothly as if it were travelling in an oiled groove, was an object lesson for all those who think that all the shot needs is punch. Once when Willie Smith and I were playing a match in Dublin in 1926 we were very grateful for Arthur's all-round ability as a player, for when Willie fell ill half way through the week Arthur handed over his refereeing duties and stepped into the breach. He kept the spectators rolling in.
The week was a traumatic one altogether, for it was the only time that I was ever late for a session. After lunch one day I went to my room to relax before the afternoon session, as was my practice. But on this particular occasion I fell asleep. Some time later I was wakened by a harrassed hall porter who said he had a Mr Willie Smith on the telephone asking what had happened to me. In a flap, I asked him to grab a taxi as speedily as possible, but this proved more easily said than done. I finally had to settle for a jaunting car which got me to the Catholic Club, where we were playing, a quarter of an hour late. Very upsetting.
This sort of experience just before a session does one's game no good at all, of course. Clark McConachy was forever getting into difficulties because of his mania for physical fitness. He did exercises twice a day and I often saw him, before a match, walking round a billiard-table on his hands. On one occasion he walked into the dressing-room and found his opponent, Walter Lindrum, slumped in a big chair.
'How are you, Mac?' asked Walter.
'As fit as a buck rat,' replied Mac - and to prove the point strode across to the chair and picked it up with Walter still in it. This was only a matter of minutes before they were due to begin play. Understandably, Mac was shaking like a leaf with his exertion for some time afterwards and had a terrible session of billiards.
Personally I did very little to keep fit in those days. I did a fair amount of walking and played a little golf in the off-season, but I used to avoid the sort of vigorous action which McConachy favoured as I found that it tended to put my muscles out of action.
Mac was quite a joker but he got his come-uppance playing against Tom Reece when King George V was in the audience. Mac at that time was relying a good deal on 'red ball' play which Tom rather feared, and so, before the match, Tom took Mac on one side and in a confidential tone told the New Zealander:
'Remember that the King detests red ball play. If I were you I'd cut it out tonight.'
So Mac duly cut it out. But even bereft of his red ball play he began to leave Reece well behind. Eventually, in desperation, Reece introduced red ball tactics himself in an attempt to pile up the points. It succeeded and he won.
McConachy was shocked. 'You told me', he said afterwards, 'that the King hated red ball play.'
'Yes, I did,' said Tom, 'and it's true.'
'But you played it yourself,' exploded Mac. 'Confound it, you beat me with it.'
'I know,' said Reece shaking his head sadly. 'And did you see the way the King was scowling at me!'
Tom Newman was a different character altogether: a very gentlemanly player and a great sportsman in every sense of the word. It was a deep loss to the game when he died in 1943 at the early age of forty-nine, after a long illness and much suffering caused by cancer of the throat. It was a particularly sad day for me since I had come to the fore when Tom and Willie Smith were kings of the game, and Tom continued to do battle with me during the thirties when I was a leading player myself. In fact, I think that I was privileged to play more games against Tom than against anyone else.
Although his cue action was not suited to the forcing shots, heavy screws and deep stun strokes required in snooker he concentrated a good deal on the game in the late twenties and thirties since he could see that the twenty-two balls were the coming thing. But as a billiards player his top of the table play was second to none - nor could many British players excel him at nursery cannons. Except for freak shots, Tom made the highest-ever break with ivory balls, a magnificent 1,370, and in the season of 1930 - 1 he made no fewer than thirty breaks of 1,000 or over. Unlike, say, Tom Reece he never complained about his luck, or blamed some spurious external circumstance for losing a match. He was always the perfect gentleman in defeat. I remember receiving the billiards championship trophy from the Duke of Roxburghe, having beaten Tom for several years, and saying to Tom that I never got a feeling of great triumph or elation from beating him because one could scarcely tell from his demeanour whether he had won or lost. He replied, with more humour than accuracy, that he bad won so many second prizes that he had got used to the idea.
Tom was a keen member of the famous Victoria betting club in Wellington Street, just off the Strand, in London. After practically every afternoon session played at Thurston's he would go along to the club to play cards until evening. There used to be a major billiards handicap played there on which large-scale betting took place; a player could back himself to win several thousand pounds. The table itself had pockets ½ inch narrower than normal - 3 inches wide instead of 3½ inches. The games were always 200 up and some of the novices received starts of 50 or 6o points. There was therefore a great temptation for players to misrepresent their true capabilities in order to receive more points from the handicappers.
Many years ago a bookmaker member told me of his attempt to win a fortune in the tournament. He was quite a useful player, but few people realised it since he seldom played in the club itself. The handicapping committee duly gave him a generous start but, not satisfied with this advantage alone, he then gave a few back-handers to a club steward to enter the premises late at night, when they were officially closed, in order to practise in secret on the competition table. He reached the final all right, but lost - not only the game but the chance of making thousands of pounds.
Tom Newman, in this competition, was usually made to owe 800 points in a game, in other words he had to make 1,000 points while his opponent might have to make a mere 140. This was virtually an impossible task. In consequence, Tom never won a single heat and finally gave up the forlorn attempt. Sensibly, in view of the odds, he never backed himself.
Beneath his quiet demeanour, Tom had a fund of billiards anecdotes and a droll way of delivering them. One of his favourites, much appreciated by his brother pros, concerned a couple of commercial travellers stranded in an out-of-the-way village in the pouring rain with three hours to kill before the next train. So they nipped into a pub and asked the landlord if he had a billiard-table of any kind so that they could have a game. To their surprise he said that he had but that he would have to show them the way. He then led them up two flights of stairs and along a dusty corridor to a room which had evidently not been used for years. There, sure enough, was a billiard-table, covered in dust, with a couple of veteran cues propped in a corner.
'Here you are,' said the landlord, 'please play as long as you like.'
After he left, the travellers got out the balls and, in silence, examined the cues. Then one said to the other:
'Tell you what, Alf: to make a level game of it, I'll take the round ball and you can have the cue with a tip on it.'
Tom's brother Eric is still the manager of the billiard-room at the Eccentric Club, London, of which I am a member. His other brother, Stanley, also a fine player, died some years ago. At one time he took over the lease of the billiard-room at London's Piccadilly Hotel, doing some teaching and generally managing the place. One evening, after dinner, he and a friend were in the room when in walked a man in the racing world, Charlie Hannon - a keen, though conceited, amateur snooker player. Poor Charlie was once stung badly by an Australian con-man dubbed 'The Wizard' who played him at the Adelphi Hotel, Liverpool. It was the old hustling story. He played Charlie for a few pounds one evening, and lost deliberately. Then to show there were no hard feelings and that he was a good sort, he bought a bottle of champagne which they cracked together - at the end of which they agreed to play again the following night. Charlie turned up, agreed to the Australian's suggestion that the stakes should be raised, and was taken for several thousand pounds.
But some people never learn. And so, that night in the Piccadilly Hotel, he virtually forced Stanley Newman to play him, even though he knew Stanley to be a pro of some standing.
'All right,' Stanley agreed finally, 'how many start would you like?'
'I don't need any start,' said Hannon, 'You can bet me 30 shillings to ten bob.'
Stanley accepted and his friend chipped in to ask for the same bet, which Hannon agreed. Their games began and continued, with bets escalating, until the early hours of the morning, when in the final game the bet stood at £1,500 to £500. Stanley won - although he only managed to scrape home on the black.
Hannon wearily put down his cue and said: 'Gentlemen, I owe you £4,000 each. Please meet me here at noon tomorrow and a settlement will be made.'
At noon precisely, Hannon turned up and gave them £2,000 each with a promise to pay the balance one week later. This he fulfilled on the dot, with not a murmur of complaint.
Unhappily, the windfall did Stanley no good at all. He gave up the Piccadilly room and went on an enormous bender.
There were yet more characters who were great supporters and benefactors of the game, though not professional players themselves. Principal among them, to my mind, was the Rt. Hon. John Burns who sat for twenty-six years in the House of Commons as Battersea MP, first for Labour then as a Liberal until he resigned his seat to become a pacifist after his son was killed in the First World War. He reckoned that billiards, which he used to play at the National Liberal Club, was the finest relaxation he ever had. He was a great authority on the history of London and an assiduous collector of books; indeed, when he was a beneficiary in the Carnegie Trust of America he used to spend the whole of his honorarium in purchasing rare books. His remarkable collection he left to various universities.
I was honoured to be invited to his eightieth birthday party which was held at the incomparable Mitre Hotel in Hampton Court, during which he presented each guest with a different volume on some aspect of the history of London. Mine, which fitted in perfectly with my lifestyle, was Leicester Square, Its Associations And Its Worthies by one Tom Taylor, and was inscribed: 'To Joseph Davis from his friend John Burns, April 3rd 1939.
I thought that the Mitre, though delightful, was rather an odd place for John to choose for the party - quite a trek from his Battersea habitat. When I asked him about this he explained that the place held old memories for him. It appeared that just before he was due to get married he had been thrown out of work and so asked his wife-to-be whether she thought it was a good idea to go through with the ceremony at that particular time. She said that she did not mind at all and that they should get married as planned, which they did. It was not long before John had to pawn his wedding ring to raise some money but, refusing to look on the black side, he lavished some of the proceeds on a lunch for both of them at the Mitre.
In his later years, he was a renowned figure around London; one of those people whose personality and appearance make them stand out in a crowd. John was a shortish stocky chap with a prolific white beard, and when out of doors he invariably wore a bowler hat and a black reefer coat. Down London streets his was almost a royal progress. He used to revel in his universal recognition yet was never a vain man, In fact he used to tell a story against himself about an occasion when, in connection with his work in the London education system, he was showing a coloured visitor around various schools. On their way to the National Liberal Club for lunch, John thought it would be a good plan to take his guest on the top of a double-decker and show him the sights of London. As they waited at the bus stop - the distinguished little bowler-hatted politician and his coloured visitor who was all of 6 feet 3 inches tall - various people passed by and invariably one would murmur to the other:
'That's John Burns'. John, though affecting not to notice, was naturally pleased as ever at this recognition until two small coloured boys came along. The elder one turned to the younger and said: 'That's John Burns, you know'. The younger one scrutinised the two men standing at the bus stop and then asked his friend in a piping voice: 'Which one?'
In my wanderings round the clubs of Britain, also, I met some odd characters and took part in some odd incidents. One that I remember took place in a famous West End club. Nowadays most amateurs play billiards or snooker for the love of the game; by that I mean that they do not play for £25 or £50 a side-in all probability the loser simply pays for the table. But in those days in the posh clubs large sums of money used to change hands over a game of volunteer snooker. In this particular club there was an old fellow who would challenge all and sundry for a shilling a point-and there can be a good many of those at volunteer snooker-plus £5 for the game. As most of his opponents were of his own mediocre standard I cannot imagine that he won or lost very much money. However, one or two of his friends thought that he would be all the better for a little lesson on the wisdom of knowing your opponent and his prowess before issuing a challenge. They therefore asked me to be the teacher.
One evening we looked through the small pane in the billiard-room door and found that the old chap was in there alone, knocking the balls about the table. This was the chance the conspirators were looking for and, as arranged, I strolled in alone. Everything worked out precisely as planned; within minutes he invited me to play him at volunteer snooker-a shilling a point and £5 on the game.
As we struck off, a few people entered the room and gradually, as the word went round, the room filled with club members watching my opponent sweat it out at the table. I opened with a break of 96, £4 16s on a money basis, he then gave away 7 on a penalty and I followed with £10 worth-a break of 200. And so it went on, the old fellow getting redder and redder in the face and the spectators deriving more and more enjoyment from his obvious discomfiture. At last I cleared the board and the marker made out that there was something like £30 owing to me.
Partly in relief, the old fellow put away his cue, then went to his coat and pulled out his wallet.
'I don't know who you are, sir,' he said, 'but you're too damned good for me.'
I said, of course, that I could not take his money since I was only a guest in the club and that he'd better speak to my host. Explanations were given and the victim was told to put his money back in his pocket. Happily, he refused and spent it instead on a lavish dinner party for all of us. I am told that he never again challenged anyone to play for a shilling a point and £5 on the game.
Once when I was staying in a hotel in the Midlands I wandered into the billiard-room after lunch to give my cue arm half an hour's practice before the afternoon session of the match I was playing. There was only one other person in the room, a smartly-dressed young chap who immediately challenged me to 100 up at billiards. 'We can have a cigar on it if you like', he added condescendingly.
I agreed and, winning the toss for break, I gave him a miss in baulk. But my opponent went successfully for an all-round cannon off the red, and then proceeded to score in quite a professional style. He reached his 50 in four or five minutes and I fully expected him to score his 100 before I could get another visit to the table.
But when his break reached 80 he turned to me and said: 'Young fellow (actually I was his age) I'm going to give you a chance to win that cigar after all'-at which he played a deliberate shot to leave the red hanging over the top pocket. As I went to the table, somewhat nettled by his superior attitude, I said: 'Make it 200 up and I'll play you for two cigars.'
'That's OK by me,' he laughed, 'but they must be ten shilling smokes.'
He had left me an ideal top of table position, so much so that I could have made the bet £200 without feeling that I was taking much of a risk. I proceeded to make what must have been one of the fastest 200 breaks I had ever scored, leaving the other chap flattened and flabbergasted. As I put up my cue I remarked: 'You had better leave the cigars for me at the bar.'
'But what name shall I say,' he said, still rather bemused.
'Just ask the manager,' I said. 'Good afternoon.'
I cannot say with any honesty that all such incidents turned out equally well. One afternoon in Manchester, for instance, at the end of a session in the Houldsworth Hall, I was approached by a merry gentleman asking me if I would be good enough to play a frame of snooker with him - adding quickly that he would give me £5 win or lose. At first I was somewhat irritated but when he persisted I agreed, to teach him a lesson. There was precious little likelihood of my losing and in any case I was never one to turn up my nose at good money. And so we played a frame together. Since he was only of medium club standard at best the game was soon over, with me running out the winner by 120 points to 3. Yet my opponent paid up with a smile.
I was puzzled. 'Tell me,' I said, 'why are you throwing your money away like this?'
'Oh, that's all tight, Joe,' came the reply. 'You see, on the train this morning I told a pal that I was going to the Houldsworth Hall to play Joe Davis, and he said, "I'll bet you a tenner you don't." So now you're five pounds in pocket and so am I. Good business, eh?'
When I was attending a small social club up in Lancashire I had a couple of odd experiences in one day. Firstly, after my exhibition I was playing some of the local crack-shots when up came a pint-sized chap hiding under a huge cloth cap. He, too, wanted a game. Knowing that players come in all shapes and sizes I was happy to take him on. Then he said, with a worried frown, 'I hope you don't mind if I keep my cap on, Mr Davis.' I replied that as far as I was concerned he could wear his overcoat if he liked and that, anyway, I thought that a cloth cap was much preferable to a bowler hat for playing billiards.
Secondly, in the evening, while continuing to play all-corners, I gave one fellow the usual 40 points start in a frame of snooker. I smashed the pyramid as usual and then stood back while my opponent potted reds, followed by blacks and pinks with such aplomb that - with or without the 40 points - he won at a canter.
Afterwards I went to congratulate him on the hiding he had just given me, but as I held out my hand he said: 'Nay, nay, Mr Davis. I were reet off my game tonight. In fact I never played so bad.'
Now I ask you: what should I have said in reply?