But this was instantly checked by Fletcher. "I'm not doing it for a
gamble," he said, curtly. "Please keep your money in your pockets, or
the match is off!"
They looked at him with lowering glances, but they submitted. It was
evident to Dot that they all stood in considerable awe of him--all save
Warden, who chalked Hill's cue with supreme self-assurance, and then
lighted a cigarette without the smallest hint of embarrassment.
The match began, and though the gambling had been checked a breathless
interest prevailed. Fletcher Hill's play was not well known at Trelevan,
but at the very outset it was evident to the most casual observer that he
was a skilled player. He spoke scarcely at all, and his face was masklike
in its composure, but Dot, watching, knew with that intuition which of
late had begun to grow upon her that he was grimly set upon obtaining
the victory. The knowledge thrilled her with a strange excitement. She
knew that he was in a fashion desirous of proving himself in her eyes,
that he had entered into the contest solely for her.
As for Warden, she believed he was playing entirely to please himself.
He took an artistic interest in every stroke, but the ultimate issue of
the game did not seem to enter into his calculation. He played like a
sportsman, sometimes rashly, often brilliantly, but never selfishly. It
was impossible to watch him with indifference.
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