"I hate a noisy game," said the Captain.
The Captain, making up his mind without much waste of time, sent his
ball under the cushion, six inches outside baulk.
"What will I do here?" asked Malooney.
"I don't know what you will do," said the Captain; "I'm waiting to
see."
Owing to the position of the ball, Malooney was unable to employ his
whole strength. All he did that turn was to pocket the Captain's
ball and leave himself under the bottom cushion, four inches from the
red. The Captain said a nautical word, and gave another miss.
Malooney squared up to the balls for the third time. They flew
before him, panic-stricken. They banged against one another, came
back and hit one another again for no reason whatever. The red, in
particular, Malooney had succeeded apparently in frightening out of
its wits. It is a stupid ball, generally speaking, our red--its one
idea to get under a cushion and watch the game. With Malooney it
soon found it was safe nowhere on the table. Its only hope was
pockets. I may have been mistaken, my eye may have been deceived by
the rapidity of the play, but it seemed to me that the red never
waited to be hit. When it saw Malooney's ball coming for it at the
rate of forty miles an hour, it just made for the nearest pocket. It
rushed round the table looking for pockets. If in its excitement, it
passed an empty pocket, it turned back and crawled in. There were
times when in its terror it jumped the table and took shelter under
the sofa or behind the sideboard.
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