"To succeed at billiards a man requires to have high strung nerves," said the gentleman who was endeavouring to raise a glass of whisky to his lips by the simple expedient of placing a handkerchief across his shoulders and using it as a lever. "Look at all the big players. They're all nervous men, Stevenson and Dawson and Roberts are all highly strung." "High strung nerves are constitutional," said another man, "and not, if I may call it so, contagious. You don't call your disease high strung nervousness, do you?" he continued, addressing the first speaker. "Sir," said the other man with dignity, as he replaced his handkerchief in his pocket, "you are inclined to be personal," and with that he stalked out. "There's a good deal in what he said, though," said another man as he watched the disappearing form. "All the best players are highly nervous. Some people say Roberts has no nerves, but I know better. He's the same as the rest. "There's not one of the champions who could hold a sixpence between his fingers when he makes his first stroke in an important match, and I'm willing to lay odds on that too." "It stands to reason that it should be so," said another. "Highly strung nerves mean a finely-drawn intelligence and quick perception. The man who has no nerves whatever is the best man to lend money to, or to take into your office, but he's not going to distinguish himself in any way. He'll draw his salary every Saturday, and he won't be broke on the following Friday either. Men like this are the backbone of the country, but they are never going to climb high." And as the talk drifted on, and the men who were playing occasionally added a few words to the discussion, and went steadily on, piling up small runs of fives and eights, and the marker with a far away look in his eyes reached out the rest at intervals, and added the scores on, and so the time passed.
"It's getting late," said one; "I must be off," and he walked to the coat rack for his overcoat, but it was not there. When he had recovered from his surprise he informed the others of his loss, and another man found that his umbrella was also missing. The marker was interrogated. "Well, I never," he said. "That beats everything. What was your umbrella like?" he inquired of the victim, and the latter described the "missing article." Then it must be the man I met coming down the stairs when I was bringing the drinks in who took it, "said the marker," for he had just such an umbrella in his hand and a similar overcoat to the one that's gone on his arm." "What a cast iron nerve he must have had to come in and take the things whilst we were talking," said one of the crowd.
"Yes," said the man who had objected to the nerve theory," he must be the sort of man it's safe to lend money to. It's possible that he may return the articles later on." But the losers paid no heed to the sarcasm but sadly wished each other good-night and went their way.