The player who calls it Tuskers.
The player who counts your breaks for you, but whether from interest
or suspicion you are not sure.
The player who pots the white when he should and says nothing about
it.
The player who pots the white when he should, with a thousand
apologies.
The player who pots the white when he shouldn't, with a thousand
apologies.
The player who is snappy with the marker.
The player who drops cigar ash on the cloth.
The player who hates to lose.
The player who would much rather that you won. This type is a joy to
play with, unless towards the end he too patently ceases to try.
The player who, after the stroke, tells you what you ought to have
done.
The player who talks to the balls, particularly to the red. "Now then,
red," he says, "don't go into baulk;" or, "Stop just by that pocket;"
or "White, don't go down."
The player who has just come from a spectacular match and keeps on
trying to reproduce that shot of STEVENSON's.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Ministry Official_. "No NEED TO SCREEN THE LIGHTS
_NOW_, MY BOY. D'YOU THINK THE WAR'S STILL ON?"
_Infatuated Office Boy_. "I WAS JUST TRYING TO MAKE MISS JENKINS A BIT
OF TOAST, SIR."]
* * * * *
"In a licensing prosecution at ---- yesterday it was stated
that one shilling was charged for a 'drop' of whisky of about
one-sixth of a gallon.
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