"Oh, nothing," said Jack carelessly. "What are you after?"
Redisham met his gaze squarely, and then glanced at Billy Faraday and Patch, who also were staring at him meaningly. He shifted from one foot to the other.
"I just came in to borrow a dicker," he explained.
"And that, I suppose," said Jack, "is why you shut the door?"
Redisham's lip curled. "I don't know what you are getting at, Symonds," he said. "It's true that the door blew to, in a gust of wind just now, but—"
The three pals looked at him queerly, and he resolved on a bold stroke. "Why, hang it," he said, taking the bull by the horns, "you look as if you thought—thought I was trying to pinch some of your mouldy traps!"
It was well done of Redisham. He met the charge before it was thrown at him. He experienced a distinct ascendancy.
"Oh, not at all," said Jack politely. "It looked queer for a moment that was all—the door shut, and all that. Of course," he went on, with elaborate irony, "if it had been somebody else, then—!"
Redisham flushed under the sarcasm, and sat down with an affectation of carelessness, showing his violent green socks as he pulled up his immaculate trouser-legs.
"I'm glad to hear it," he observed, his little eyes flashing. "How did the race go this afternoon?"