A letter of introduction was handed by an actor to a manager. It described the presenter as an actor of much merit, and concluded: "He plays Macbeth, Hamlet, Shylock, and billiards. He plays billiards best."—Royal Magazine.
Heard at the S.E. Billiard Tournament. Player (to opponent whose golf is less erratic than his billiards): "You can abuse it as much as you like, but at least you do always get a decent lie at this game."—Financier and Bullionist.
Perhaps the following incident (writes a correspondent) might interest you. I was once engaged on a break against a friend of mine, in the course of which I made a rather nice screw-back gathering cannon. When my friend saw the balls finish in a heap he swept them round the table with his cue, much to the amusement of the spectators, remarking, when they had come to a standstill, "Now you can go on."
The butcher was puzzled; he had sent his boy off with the meat an hour before. But he had an inspiration. "On your way back," he said to his disappointed customer, "call in at the billiard hall. The little bounder may be there." And sure enough he was discovered there playing a game of fifty-up against a colleague in the same line of business, and with the meat basket carefully stowed away under the table. "Well," pleaded the youngster, "I had to come before seven o'clock or I wouldn't ha' got a table!"
As Inman's break progressed he had a face like a stone Buddha. The whole thing seemed to bore him. Everybody groaned "Oh!" with a personal pang when he broke down over a dead easy shot. But he did not care. He had laid Smith a stymie. Smith walked round the table looking miserable, changed his mind and walked back, changed his mind again, then changed it again. But fourth thoughts were not best.
He returned to his seat with eyes upcast in the manner of prayer.—"R. C." in The Evening Standard.
Inman, in playing a long slow cannon, got so excited as the balls were on the way that he gave a back kick, just as some early beginning amateurs are wont to do, and as old John North invariably did. Unfortunately, Smith was sitting just behind him and got the kick on his shins. Inman turned to apologize, and then went to go on, but found he did not know which was his ball.
He was playing with the spot ball, and after a careful examination turned round and said "They've all got spots on." Everybody laughed at this—even George Robey and the usually immobile Sam Mayo—and Smith, having by now recovered from the shock, also laughed and informed Inman which was his ball.—Evening News.
There were times when I fell asleep over my linotype machine after playing several nights in succession. But my employer loved the game. "All right, Willie," he would say; "go home and have a rest. But be sure you win to-night."—Smith in Tit-Bits.
I asked the "caretaker on the premises" if I might now look at the billiard-room. "Billiard-room?" she said vaguely. I showed her the agent's list, with the smiling assurance in black and white. She was still nonplussed, but at last a light broke in. "Oh, yes," she said, "I suppose they mean the attic," and she led the way upstairs to beneath a trapdoor in the ceiling. A half-size bagatelle board might conceivably be insinuated through this aperture, but nothing larger. And as for light!—Punch.
It is related that Reece, while visiting South Africa some years ago, met an old Lancashire acquaintance, with whom he went for a day's shooting. When in the bush they heard a loud noise as of the roar of some wild beast, and promptly climbed trees. Presently Reece called to his companion: "Shall we go home?" to which the other replied: "No, let it go home first." Eventually they came down and returned at speed to town, where they were assured that there was not a wild beast within hundreds of miles.
Diggle has always had the reputation of not caring much for billiards, although he used to make such astonishing breaks in his quiet, impassive way. Dawson was different, it is said, and there was nothing like billiards for him. Thus it was that Diggle, encountered one morning early in Brighton, said that he was merely trying to get away from Dawson, adding: "It's billiards with him for breakfast, billiards for lunch, billiards at the show from 3 to 5, billiards for tea, billiards at the show again from 8 to 10, billiards for supper, and billiards till bedtime. Yes, that's why I am out. He came to my bedroom door at 5 and asked how he had left the balls overnight."
At the Tobacco Trades Exhibition at the Agricultural Hall, inside an enclosure in one corner, Peall and Dawson were playing exhibition billiards. The band— a brass band—was playing ten yards away; upstairs, in the gallery, a gang of carpenters was making loud hammering and other preparations for the Military Tournament. Presently they took to planing wood, and shavings fluttered on the billiard table. Peall said he didn't care if it snowed, and went on putting down the red until some sawdust dropped in his eye and seemed to put him off his stroke. Dawson drove the ball, by main strength, through the debris until his arm tired. Peall eventually won the game in the longest time on record.—Daily Mail, May 12, 1897.