After this the luck of the play went against James, and when, the marker having by now finished his meal, the score was actually called at 90-99 in his opponent’s favour, he might have been excused for giving up the game as lost.  With dogged determination, however, he faced the situation.  His own ball was somewhere near the centre, the red about eighteen inches from the top left-hand pocket, and the white midway between the right-hand cushion and the D. With an almost superhuman stroke (but not, as was subsequently averred, with his eyes shut) he smote the red, and his ball travelled rapidly up and down the table.  On the down journey it glanced off the white, after which, still going at a tremendous pace, it made a complete tour of the table and concluded its meteoric career in the bottom right-hand pocket.  Meanwhile the red and the white had both departed on voyages of their own, the terminus in each case being the self-same pocket. (See diagram.) After the balls had been taken out, examined and counted, and James’s person had been searched to see if he were concealing any, the marker pronounced this to be a 10-shot, and the game was thus strikingly ended in James’s favour.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  BEHIND THE SCENES IN CINEMA-LAND.

“HOP IT, LEANDER!  THE HELLESPONT’S DOWN AT THE OTHER END OF THE TANK.  THIS END’S ‘FUN AT FLOUNDER BEACH.’”]

* * * * *

COMMERCIAL CANDOUR.

  “The Great Song of a Britisher is—­
  ‘There’s No Place Like Home.’ 
          STAY AT ——­’S HOTEL,
  And you’ll Sing it and Realise it.”—­South African Paper.

    “The mere selling of an article is a simple matter, but keeping the
    customer sold is our principal aim.”—­Advt. in West Indian Paper.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  First Novice. “WOULD YOU MIND MY PASSING, PLEASE?”

Second ditto. “NOT AT ALL—­NOT AT ALL—­IF YOU DON’T MIND USING ME AS THE HANDRAIL.”]

* * * * *

MY DEBUT IN “PUNCH.”

I am, I hope, decently modest.  When I said so once to Margery she remarked that there was no need to make a virtue of necessity.  But younger sisters, of course...

I came down to breakfast at my usual time—­as the others were finishing—­ and found a letter awaiting me.  I opened it under the usual fire of insults from Margery and John.  To-day I ignored them, however, and my young heart gave a small jump.  I am a modest young man.

“What’s the matter with you, little Sunbeam?” asked John (he is Cecilia’s husband, through no fault of mine).  “Is the tailor more rude than usual, or has she found out your address?”

“The Vicar has asked him to sing at the Band of Hope,” suggested Margery.

I commenced my breakfast.

“What is it, Alan?” asked Cecilia.