Thundleford with acerbity. "However, as you all
seem bent on watching a silly game, there's no more to be said. I shall
go upstairs and finish some writing. Later on, perhaps, I will come down
and join you."
To one, at least, of the onlookers the game was anything but silly. It
was absorbing, exciting, exasperating, nerve-stretching, and finally it
grew to be tragic. The Major with the St. Moritz reputation was playing
a long way below his form, young Strinnit was playing slightly above his,
and had all the luck of the game as well. From the very start the balls
seemed possessed by a demon of contrariness; they trundled about
complacently for one player, they would go nowhere for the other.
"A hundred and seventy, seventy-four," sang out the youth who was
marking. In a game of two hundred and fifty up it was an enormous lead
to hold. Clovis watched the flush of excitement die away from Dillot's
face, and a hard white look take its place.
"How much have you go on?" whispered Clovis. The other whispered the sum
through dry, shaking lips. It was more than he or any one connected with
him could pay; he had done what he had said he would do. He had been
rash.
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