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。

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