334 SPORTING STORIES 



hazard. He gave misses whenever they were practicable, 

 and never departed from the strict game." 



Jonathan was wise not to risk his reputation by a match 

 with Roberts, for he had passed his prime; though he 

 would have been very indignant had any one suggested 

 that he was not as good as ever. There was much spilling 

 of ink over the merits of the two great masters of the cue ; 

 but, after a while, Kentfield's records were so completely 

 wiped out that he retired from the scene, eclipsed by the 

 new luminary I do not remember the year of his death ; 

 but he had fallen into obscurity for a long time before he 

 shuffled off this mortal coil. 



I remember the sensation created by old John Roberts's 

 break of 246 at Saville House, and I little dreamed that 

 I should live to see the day when ten times that amount 

 would be made off the balls. I recall, too, the consternation 

 which his defeat by young William Cook caused among 

 admirers of old John Roberts. For four years the new 

 wonder held his own, beating young John Roberts and Joe 

 Bennett — the former three times in succession. Then at 

 last in 1875 young John turned the tables on his conqueror 

 and amply avenged the defeats of himself and his father. 

 For nearly twenty years John Roberts the younger was far 

 above all his contemporaries and was recognised as the 

 finest exponent of the game ever seen. The gap between 

 him and the next in merit was so great that at one time 

 there was no one to whom he could not concede half the 

 game. 



Among the lesser lights of bygone days I recall " Billy " 

 Dufton, whose long "jennies" into the top pockets used to 

 excite my admiration. He had the honour of being tutor 

 to our present Sovereign, who still plays a very good game. 



Dufton was a great friend of Harry Grimshaw the jockey, 

 and I have often seen them together in the billiard room of 

 the " Birdbolt " at Cambridge, in my time a favourite haunt 

 of the undergraduate. It was from the " Birdbolt " that 

 Harry Grimshaw started on his fatal drive to Newmarket, 

 when he was thrown out of his dog-cart and killed on the 

 spot. I saw him playing billiards with Dufton an hour 

 before his tragic death. 



