“I was fortunate that time,” said Mr. Legge with rather more animation.

“Not a bit of it,” said Cubitt. “You’re merely odiously accurate.”

“Well,” said Watchman, “I’ll lay you ten bob you can’t do it again, Mr. Legge.”

“You’ve lost,” said Cubitt.

“Aye, he’s a proper masterpiece, is Mr. Legge,” said old Abel.

Sebastian Parish came across from the inglenook. He looked down good-humouredly at Legge.

“Nobody,” thought Cubitt, “has any right to be as good-looking as Seb.”

“What’s all this?” asked Parish.

“I’ve offered to bet Mr. Legge ten bob he can’t throw fifty, one, and fifty.”

“You’ve lost,” said Parish.

“This is monstrous,” cried Watchman. “Do you take me, Mr. Legge?”

Legge shot a glance at him. The voices of the players beyond the partition had quieted for the moment. Will Pomeroy had joined his father at the private bar. Cubitt and Parish and the two Pomeroys waited in silence for Legge’s reply. He made a curious grimace, pursing his lips and screwing up his eyes. As if in reply Watchman used the K.C.’s trick of his and took the tip of his nose between thumb and forefinger. Cubitt, who watched them curiously, was visited by the fantastic notion that some sort of signal had passed between them.

Legge rose slowly to his feet.

“Oh yes,” he said. “Certainly, Mr. Watchman, I take you on.”

ii

Legge moved, with a slovenly dragging of his boots, into a position in front of the board. He pulled out the three darts and looked at them.

“Getting a bit worn, Mr. Pomeroy,” said Legge. “The rings are loose.”

“I’ve sent for a new set,” said Abel. “They’ll be here tomorrow. Old lot go into Public.”

Will Pomeroy left the public bar and joined his father. “Showing ’em how to do it, Bob?” he asked.

“There’s a bet on, sonny,” said old Pomeroy.