“What game?” he repeated.
Brant smiled. “I don’t talk about that either,” he said. “Do you think I’d mess about touting books unless I had to? Would you?”
George had no idea what he was driving at. He said nothing.
“As soon as it’s cooled off I’m going hack to my racket,” Brant said, and he touched the raw, livid scar, his eyes clouding and his face set in grim lines.
So Gladys was right. He was a wrong ’un, George thought, and, somehow, he felt envious. He knew he shouldn’t feel like that, but he had always longed to live dangerously.
For something to say, George blurted out, “That’s a nasty scar you’ve got there. Is it recent?”
An extraordinary change came over Brant’s face. It seemed to grow dark and thin. It twisted out of shape so that it was moulded into a mask of terrifying hatred.
He leaned forward and spat on the floor.
“Come on,” he said, speaking through stiff white lips. “We’re going to see Robinson.”
“Not tonight,” George returned hastily. “It’s raining.