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"What does that mean?" cried the old man excitedly, with dry lips. "Why, don't you see? He's tied the score. I imagine this is almost an unprecedented run. I believe he's got Prognor on toast, if you ask me." Hammond came up with flushed face, and grasped the old man by the arm with a vigour that made him wince.
The father was pleased to see that Dick played now with all the care and caution he had observed at first. The silence became intense, almost painful. Every man leaned forward and scarcely breathed. All at once Prognor strode down to the billiard-table and stretched his hand across it. A cheer shook the ceiling. The cup would remain on its black marble pedestal. Saunders had won.
At last two of the balls lay close together, and the young man, playing very deftly, appeared to be able to keep them in that position as if he might go on scoring indefinitely. He went on in this way for some time, when suddenly the silence was broken by Prognor crying out "I don't call that billiards. It's baby play." Instantly there was an uproar.
He was beginning to understand. The ten thousand, then, was not the figures of a defalcation. "Yes," continued the other, "it's the great match for the cup. There's been a series of games, and this is the culminating one. Prognor has won one, and Saunders one; now this game settles it. Prognor is the man of the High Fliers' Club. He's a good one.
They'll all be down on him to-morrow if they lose their money, although he don't make anything one way or another. I believe it's the high betting that's made him so anxious and spoiled his play." "Hush, hush!" was whispered around the room. Young Saunders had begun to play. Prognor stood by with a superior smile on his lips. He was certain to go out when his turn came again.
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