It is precisely with the same fear, the same awe, the same terror with which a sensitive traveller enters a strange church that you intrude upon your first great billiard match; and when the experts themselves assure you that the long duel between Smith and Inman, now in its last stages at Leicester Square, is one of the historic matches of all time, you shake at the knees on entering the temple.
The most wonderful billiard match I had ever known until to-day was the one in which I got 29—one for a miss by my enemy and a magnificent break of 28, all flukes, by myself. Today's was a much different affair: and the sense of fear got into working order as soon as I entered the temple and saw the two tiers of worshippers on either side of the table.
The silence was more startling than an air raid. A hundred of the congregation on one side, a hundred on the other. True, they smoked, and you don't smoke in church, but when they lit matches they curled themselves into the shape of the letter C, with their noses almost under their seats, hiding the light so that it should not divert the glance of the players—a very proper and sporting consideration in a game where sight is everything.
The only man who broke this law was reproved by Inman.. "That light, sir!"—and the sinner put it out.
If the congregation coughed, they did it much more quietly than people do in church, much more reverently. I hardly dared to breathe, and had not the nerve to set fire to a cigar.
The entry of Melbourne Inman suggested something of the bishop about it too. That almost superhuman mask of his was the most impressive thing in the temple. The name in itself would give a great advantage to one who wished to become a bishop—the Rev. Melbourne Inman—and his large serious eyes, with the heavy eyelids, add to the remarkable asceticism of the face. You would imagine Inman as spending his days in inward speculation on the folly of human ambition, and when he came into the room and bowed his head to the congregation he was Bishop Inman, and the bow was a benediction.
At once I knew where Inman ought to be— in the House of Lords. Give him Westminster instead of his green cathedral at Leicester Square and he would do it well.
Inman is so much the bishop that when a dare-devil lit a match in his front row, a glance from Inman blew it out. Bishops don't allow smoking in cathedrals. Inman blew the match Out with his eyes from the end of the table. I observed that the dare-devil didn't light up again till I saw him join the crowd outside in Leicester Square who were waiting for the close-of-play scores.
It would be impudence for a heretic to say more about the service. But, to descend from the subject of the bishop, Smith is like a youngster aspiring to the theological profession and looking as if he had just missed becoming one of the important people. He is only a curate, to look at; and I really think that the bishop is annoyed to see a curate competing with him.
Smith has a boyish air and a boyish eye. He is the recently arrived curate in the curious sect of billiardists disputing with the bishop.
If he wins the bishop will use such words that the old excommunications will sound as nothing beside them.