Now Lie in It

Just last Saturday a fellow from Eliot House looked up from the green cloth of the pool table, and discovered that his opponent was his own maid.

"Idle hands do the devil's work" is a tried and true saying that must have passed through that Eliot House man's mind. With a slow movement he put his cue on the table and cleared his throat.

"Got Saturday off, ch?" he ventured.

"Uh huh," she replied, crooking her arm over her head for a difficult three-cushion bank shot.

The maid's life is a pleasant one, thought the Eliot man, who was of a literary turn of mind.

"My bed will go unmade today," said the Eliot man with an air of injured indifference. Eliot men are notoriously indifferent, even when injured.

Flup! the three-cushion bank shot went in.

"My girl friend is coming up from Vassar. I know I'll be embarrassed when I try to entertain her with the bed not made."

"Stick to your game," she replied. "You should have made that last shot."

"My bed will be awfully messy by Monday," said the Eliot man, no longer casual.

The maid sank a well-nigh impossible cross-side shot.

"Why not take Tuesday, or Wednesday off?" said the Eliot man, tearing the cloth with his stick.

The maid kissed the eight-ball into the corner pocket.

"You lose," she said.