They descended to a subterranean chamber where, in a pit lighted by low-hung shaded globes, men in shirt sleeves clicked the red and white balls on a score of tables. Rows of leather-upholstered chairs gave comfort to spectators. They commandeered seats and lighted cigarettes. "Look," Stubby said. "There's Norman Gower."
Young Gower sat across a corner from them. He was in evening clothes. He slumped in his chair. His hands were limp along the chair arms. He was not watching the billiard players. He was staring straight across the room with the sightless look of one whose mind is far away.
"Another deep thinker," Stubby drawled. "Rather rough going for Norman these days."
"How?" MacRae asked.
"Funked it over across," Stubby replied. "So they say. Careful to stay on the right side of the Channel. Paying the penalty now. Girls rather rub it in. Fellows not too—well, cordial. Pretty rotten for Norman."
"Think he slacked deliberately?" MacRae inquired.
"That's the story. Lord, I don't know," Stubby answered. "He stuck in England four years. Everybody else that was fit went up the line. That's all I know. By their deeds ye shall judge them—eh?"
"Perhaps. What does he say about that himself?"
"Nothing, so far as I know. Keeps strictly mum on the war subject," Stubby said.