“The gang, of course. Stands to reason. Come and have a squint. On the bank, his footprints are, up to the library, all round. I——”
“Is Alan often taken like this, Guy?” asked Mr. Doyle rudely.
“Foster!” Guy laughed in a superior way. “Come, Alan, come. You’ll be saying he’s the Man with the Broken Nose next.”
“Well, I shouldn’t be surprised if he was,” retorted Alan defiantly. “You needn’t laugh. He’s mixed up with ’em all right. Bet you anything you like. I should tell the police if I were you.”
“The police!” crowed Mr. Doyle, and staggered as if his mirth were incapable of human control.
“The police!” echoed Guy, and staggered too.
Alan flushed. “All right. You see! If you won’t tell ’em, I will. Yes, you can laugh if you like, but you’ll jolly soon find I’m right. Huh! Fancy having a clue like that under your noses and never spotting it. Huh!” And with considerable dignity Alan stalked, so well as a slightly stout youth may stalk, towards the road.
“Go and ask Mr. Foster if he’s ever broken his nose, Alan,” Mr. Doyle called after him derisively.
“All right, blast you, I will!” Master Spence called back.
Doyle caught Guy’s arm. “Look, there’s the Colonel and Cottingham coming down the road. Nesbitt, I think this is where we retire.”