Our form is just about the
same, and we should have bad an enjoyable game if it had
not been for that queer temper of his. He had been in a
sullen humour the whole day, pretending not to hear what
I said to him, or else giving snappy answers, and looking
like a thunder-cloud. I was determined not to have a
row, so I took no notice at all of his continual
provocations, which, instead of pacifying him, seemed to
encourage him to become more offensive. At the end of
the match, wanting two to win, I put down the white which
was in the jaws of the pocket. He cried out that this
was bad form. I contended that it was folly to refrain
from doing it when one was only two off game, and, on his
continuing to make remarks, I appealed to the marker, who
took the same view as I did. This opposition only
increased his anger, and he suddenly broke out into most
violent language, abusing me in unmeasured terms. I said
to him, "If you have anything to say to me, Cullingworth,
come out into the street and say it there. It's a
caddish thing to speak like that before the marker." He
lifted his cue, and I thought he was going to strike me
with it; but he flung it clattering on the floor, and
chucked half a crown to the man. When we got out in the
street, he began at once in as offensive a tone as ever.
"That's enough, Cullingworth," I said. "I've stood
already rather more than I can carry.
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