OfaneveningtheWimblehurstblade，shiny-facedfromawashandwithsomeloudfinery，acolouredwaistcoatoravividtie，wouldbetakehimselftotheEastryArmsbilliard-room，ortothebarparlourofsomeminorpubwherenapcouldbeplayed。Onesoonsickenedofhisslowknowingness，thecunningobservationofhisdeadenedeyes，hisideaofa“goodstory。”always，alwaystoldinundertones，poordirtyworm！hisshrewd，elaboratemaneuversforsomepettyadvantage，adrinktothegoodorsuch-likedeal。
ThererisesbeforemyeyesasIwrite，youngHopleyDodd，thesonoftheWimblehurstauctioneer，theprideofWimblehurst，itsfinestflower，withhisfurwaistcoatandhisbulldogpipe，hisridingbreeches——hehadnohorse——andhisgaiters，asheusedtosit，leaningforwardandwatchingthebilliard-tablefromunderthebrimofhisartfullytiltedhat。Ahalf-dozenphrasesconstitutedhisconversation：“hardlines！”heusedtosay，and“Goodbaazness。”inabassbleat。Moreover，hehadalongslowwhistlethatwasesteemedtheverycreamofhumorouscomment。
Nightafternighthewasthere。
Alsoyouknewhewouldnotunderstandthat_I_couldplaybilliards，andregardedeverystrokeImadeasafluke。ForabeginnerIdidn’tplaysobadly，Ithought。I’mnotsosurenow；
thatwasmyopinionatthetime。ButyoungDodd’sscepticismandthe“goodbaazness“finallycuredmeofmydispositiontofrequenttheEastryArms，andsothesenoiseshadtheirvalueinmyworld。