An old-time player that I had nearly forgotten was Gus Bailey. Those of us who have had the advantage of receiving lessons from a good professional teacher know that one of the first things impressed upon us was the importance of a firm stance at the billiard table.
Bailey was fully alive to this, and it was quite a work of time for him to settle down to each stroke. When he had finally satisfied himself as to his position, his legs were as wide apart as those of a batsman of the Harrow school, prepared to receive a ball, and I really think you might have collided heavily with him without producing any effect.
The first time I ever met him was in the billiard room of the Coleherne Arm's, West Brompton. I used to play there nearly every evening, generally with a younger brother.
When we arrived there one night we found a stranger in the room, who seemed anxious to have a game, and proposed a three pool. As we both fancied ourselves at this game we rather jumped at the idea, and played until closing time. We did not win. At the same time there was nothing startling about the stranger's play. He did not make any specially brilliant hazards, but his safety play was very sound, and he always seemed to get the best of any luck that was knocking about.
This went on for a week, at the end of which time we reluctantly came to the conclusion that the stranger was too good for us. It was some months afterwards that, happening to look in at a professional handicap, I found that our ingenuous stranger was Gus Bailey!
This reminds me of another somewhat similar experience in the early seventies I was stopping with an uncle of mine at "The Bull," at Cambridge, for one of the Newmarket race meetings. My uncle was keen upon every sort of sport, as may be imagined from the following little episode of his youthful days. He had an unpleasant interview with his father, who had been called upon, not for the first time, to pay his son's debts. Being asked how the momentous meeting had gone off, the young hopeful cheerfully replied, "Not so badly. Father made me promise never to play billiards again, but, thank goodness, he never said a word about pool or pyramids." To the best of my belief this promise was kept to the letter—if not in the spirit—until his comparatively recent death at the age of eighty-four.
Returning to "The Bull," Bancroft, a north country professional billiard player, was also staying there. He was quite one of the rank and file of his profession, but was always well dressed, and was never seen without a choice flower in his button-hole. On the opening day of the Newmarket fixture, my uncle and I had the luck to back two or three winners, so after dinner, when Bancroft proposed a three pool, we were quite ready to play, though we knew who he was, and were fully aware that he was too good for us. To the best of my memory we played five shilling and two.
Soon after midnight my uncle, who had lost about £10, said he should go to bed, and Bancroft challenged me to continue at single pool. At that time I had neither lost nor won, and, in ordinary circumstances, should also have retired to bed.
It happened, however, that I knew that Bancroft had only recently recovered from a bad attack of rheumatic fever, from the effects of which he was still weak. I had noticed that he had been gradually falling off in his play, whilst no night was ever long enough for me at either cards or billiards. Those were the "go as you please" days, when there was no grandmotherly legislation as to closing time, so I said I would take him on, provided he would promise to play until four o'clock.
He assented very cheerfully to this, and things turned out just as I had imagined they would do. He rapidly went from bad to worse.
Towards the finish he was missing one simple hazard after another, and, when we finally stopped a little before the stipulated time, my uncle's "tenner," if not back in his pocket, was at any rate restored to "the family." (To be continued.