Although his always successful opponent at billiards was also his best customer, Lessgood could not overcome the chagrin that he felt at the defeats that were inflicted upon him with such monotonous regularity. At first Betterman played him level, but it was clear to those who sat around in the commodious billiard room at the Wellington Restaurant that the two were not in the same class, and one day an habitue who was himself a strong cueist remarked to Lessgood: "If I were in your place I should take points from your friend— say 30 in a hundred, and the start could be gradually reduced as you improved until you got level again. This would give you more confidence."
Lessgood thanked his well-intentioned adviser, although without the slightest intention of following his precept, for, as with most inferior players who "fancy" themselves, the idea of accepting a start from one who, notwithstanding damaging evidences to the contrary, he still desired to regard as being in the same class as himself, wounded his amour propre. But when, the next day, Betterman made a dozen red losers in succession into one of the middle pockets; gave, immediately afterwards, a pretty little show at the top of the table; and finally ran to his 250 when Lessgood had only reached a few points beyond the 100, the latter said: "You're too good, Betterman.
"With pleasure," replied Betterman, but I don't suppose that I shall be able to hold you with a start of that kind. The luck was all my way to-day. You had better make it fifty."
"No, seventy-five is little enough,"said Lessgood.
Next day he played with extreme care; gave occasional misses instead of opening up the game for his opponent; and made a few useful runs. When game was called, however, he was still more than 50 points behind, and as day succeeded day it was quite clear to everyone in the room except himself that his proper start from Betterman on their present relative form should be nearer 100 than 75 in 250.
Cogitating over the tragedy—for as little less than that he had come to regard his constant defeat—Lessgood had an idea, and, as is the case with most simple ideas, he marvelled that it had not occurred to him before. He would seek out a professional whose advertisements he had noticed, take a few lessons, and find out what was really wrong with his play.
On his way to the appointment he speculated as to what difficult problems and shots the professional would set him, and he was not a little surprised when his mentor simply placed the white ball on the middle spot, the red ball on the spot, and said:" Make the long loser."
It so happened that this particular stroke was Lessgood's bete noire, although Betterman seemed to make it with the greatest ease, guiding the white past the red without collision and invariably leaving a middle pocket or a drop cannon to go on with.
Thus it was with anything but confidence that Lessgood addressed himself to the stroke, which he missed by a narrow margin.
"Not bad," remarked the professional, "except for three things. You were not standing in the line of intended aim; you dipped the cue instead of keeping the butt down and throwing the tip up; and you moved on the stroke. What you want to be able to do with that long loser is to get it every time, instead of once out of three or four, and until that happens you may be sure that there is something wrong in your method."
Although rather nettled at being put through what he regarded as elementary rubbish in this way, Lessgood had the sense not to show it, an continued to pound away at the long loser with varying success for a quarter of an hour, in the course of which time the professional succeeded in finding out three more things that were wrong. The cue ball was not "topped" enough; the cue was occasionally pinched on the stroke; and in the preliminary swing the cue ball was looked at instead of the cue action being utilized to make sure of the line of aim as well as to set the arm free.
Other basic points of the kind were impressed on Lessgood by his tutor and it was with a feeling akin to elation that he took up his cue next day against Betterman, to whom he felt sure that he would be able to show a few things. Sad to relate he played worse than ever, and on telling the professional this on the occasion of his next visit, he received the comforting reply: "That is always the case. You are bound to play worse before you play better, as you have to get out of your old style and wait until the correct method has become a habit and does not need to be thought about."
So, with constant and systematic practice, it proved. One by one Lessgood freed himself from the errors of style and method that had vitiated his play, and from beating Betterman once or twice including his 75 start he succeeded one happy day in actually beating him on points. As his confidence grew that of Betterman seemed unaccountably to dwindle, until one day Lessgood (who, by mutual arrangement, was now again starting level) had the supreme satisfaction, which he had never expected to experience, of rattling off his 250 in forty minutes whilst Betterman was practically standing idle.
The next morning' he received from his old customer and opponent the following note:— "Dear Mr. Lessgood: I find that I have been playing billiards until I have got rather stale and I am thinking of giving it a rest for a time, so shall not be seeing you at the Wellington to-morrow. There is another little matter that I think I ought to mention.
My partner, who, as you know, has the principal share in the business, has been pressing lately for certain changes, and he finds, it seems, amongst other things, that the orders that you have hitherto received from the firm can be more advantageously placed elsewhere. I need scarcely say how much, personally, I regret this decision."
Frank Collins, holder of the public one-hand record break (110) and runner-up in the recent professionals' championship and handicap (whose portrait appears on Page 2) is head marker at the Palmerston Restaurant, Old Broad Street, E.C.
He was head marker to the late John Roberts, and was at the Royal Aquarium as far back as 1886. His father, G. Collins, is the oldest living professional player, and both his sisters are players.