Kirton was fully persuaded he would win it, but he has been defeated. Mostyn was positive it would fall to his lot, but he lost by 4. Oliver never doubted but the trophy would be his, but he was vanquished in the third round. This happens to be another billiard handicap, which, at the moment of writing, has not quite been decided. The first is a money prize—I forget how much—the second is a cue. This is what we have all been struggling for. We would all like to have a cue of our own. The entrance fee was the modest sum of threepence, and we were all well handicapped. Three heats have already been played, 100 up each time. Oliver started from 107. Mostyn was only 2 behind him. Oliver is the most pertinacious optimist that ever went in off the red, and Mostyn is equally hopeful. They expect some day to out- Diggle Diggle. Indeed, the spectators sometimes call both of them by that illustrious name. But I fully expected, when Ralph Leicher told me that Oliver fell against Bob Troon in the second round, he would be smothered hopelessly. But no. Bob was off about 70 and he gradually crept up to my old friend. Then Oliver had a bit of luck, though he maintained stoutly that he played for all of them. At the finish Bob wanted 5, and Oliver 3. Bob missed his shot. Then Oliver tried to get in off the white, and as he was cursing his luck, the white struck the red and it rolled into the pocket. Lucky Oliver! Bob had hard lines that time.
But when Oliver came to meet Bateley he cut up worse than ever. Bateley started from about 40, while Oliver had over the century to his credit. Mostyn declared that if he did not whack Bateley, he would cease to recognize him in the public thoroughfare. Oliver, I know, always plays his best, but what his best was on that occasion I decline to say. He says, he must have been "off colour" that night. He likes a broad-tipped cue, but whether it was "nerves" or the wrong cue, or failing eyesight will probably never be known. However, I will nothing extenuate. He lost by about 14.
The curious thing was that he played Mostyn later, and scored 56 in 20 minutes. By that time he must have got into his stride. Some of our best players, are not in this handicap. Ferinton played a match lately against a champion named Winter. I have reason to remember that, for Mostyn remarked to me, as we walked home that night— "Now winter's here, can spring be far behind?"
But Ferinton was beaten that time. Those who saw the winner play tell me that his nose was almost touching the cue when he delivered his stroke. This reminds one of the tale told by Paragot, in "The Beloved Vagabond," of one Pere Cordier, who played billiards with his nose. When it grew greasy he would chalk it deliberately; once he made a break of 245. We have never tried this method in our village, but should it become fashionable, I would be inclined to support George Morris. Frank Wing often beats him now, but Frank is a left-hander. Should he ever have a battle of noses, Wing would certainly take a back-seat.
George's is Wellingtonian or perhaps Napoleonic. Nevertheless we have some good left-handers in our midst. There's Bassett and Birleton and Billy Dickson and Jack Brierly.
But we think now that Kit Parker is almost sure to win that cue. Kit is one of the best of our players, and plays tournaments along with Letcher, Hewson and Ferinton. His mark is 25. The other night he beat Mostyn by 4.
A narrow squeak for Kit that time. Of slender form and swarthy complexion, with aquiline features, he can handle a cue to some purpose. But the stars in their courses must have fought against Mostyn that night. He only wanted 4 when Kit required 60. Then Mostyn made a false stroke, and Kit went in and won with a break of 61. I condoled with him, took snuff with him, and heartened him under the distressing circumstances.
But I like to see Oliver don his war-paint. He is so reckless in flinging out challenges. He will either give a start or take one. He will take on, without the slightest reluctance, such men as Beanley, Allinson, Fewster, Swindon or Blankton.
If Paybole gives him 20 start he is almost sure to beat him. But most of all he likes to play Mostyn. Should he take his coat off to him, there is sure to be an accession of spectators. But, generally speaking, it is a quiet game.
Oliver likes the "long-jenny," and Mostyn is proud if he brings off a "nominated cross cannon." Then in a moment of great exultation, as his somewhat elongated coat-tails sweep round for the "jigger," we may hear:—