Our Reserve Battalion has a billiard-room, which is well patronised
by all those cheerful souls who have escaped from France without
permanent injury and resignedly await the second call.
To-night the "Tap-room" is in top form. A four-handed game of snooker
is in as rapid progress as is reasonably possible. Every easy-chair
is filled with a would-be player offering gratuitous advice in order
to speed things up. A young war-scarred Captain is balanced on a
rickety side-table, offering odds on the game in a raucous voice.
The Mess-waiter strives to be in three places at once. Through all,
the players, totally unnerved, play with a desperate attempt at
concentration.
Suddenly the door opens, and the Colonel enters, heated and out of
breath. His eye pierces through the tobacco smoke and transfixes the
unhappy bookmaker. He requests him to take advantage of his position
to open a window. The players examine the tips of their cues in sudden
silence. The Colonel refuses the offer of six vacated chairs with a
slightly impatient negative and inquires as to the probable length
of the game.
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