CHAPTER XLV 



THE BOARD OF GREEN CLOTH 



Sixty or seventy years ago the best billiard player in the 

 Army was a gallant officer, whom I will call Colonel 

 Morice. This distinguished amateur had so long been an 

 object of admiration in garrison towns at home and 

 abroad that he fondly imagined his fame to be world-wide. 

 One day he walked into a billiard-room in the Quadrant, 

 and found a gentleman of Transatlantic origin knocking 

 the balls about. " Sir," said the Colonel in a patronising 

 tone of voice, " I like your style." " Wal," said the Yankee, 

 in an off-hand sort of way, " you're not the first man who 

 has said that." " Suppose," added the Colonel, " we have 

 a game. What points shall I give you?" "Guess I'll 

 play you for anything you like without points." " Sir," 

 said the Colonel stiffly, *' perhaps you are not aware that 

 my name is Morice — Colonel Morice of the 45th." He 

 was rather taken aback when the American coolly replied, 

 " Wal, Colonel, that name presents no idea to me of your 

 play." " Very good, sir," said the Colonel, with a pitying 

 smile, " then I will play you even." But before ten strokes 

 had been played the Colonel found, to his utter astonish- 

 ment, that he had met a man who was more than his 

 match; and when the Yankee's score was 100, and the 

 marker called "Game," the Colonel had only made 17. 

 Turning round as he made the winning stroke, the stranger 

 said, " You had the goodness, sir, to tell me that your name 

 was Morice, which I said presented no idea to me; my 

 name is Jonathan Kentfield, which I guess will present 

 some idea to you." 



Alas for the transitoriness of human fame ! I fear that 

 the august name of Jonathan Kcntfield will not " present " 



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