“I know you didn’t,” he said. “You were such a scug, you see, that you didn’t do those things when it was scuggish not to. But now, when it’s scuggish to do them, I believe you do. I bet you smoke. You and Plugs went out smoking yesterday after hall.”
“Well, what if I did?” said Bags. “And how did you know?”
“Because I stunk you when you came back, Simple. What a funny chap you are! You never smoked at Helmsworth where it was the right thing, and yet you do here where it’s the wrong thing.”
Bags plodded on for a little while in silence.
“Adams doesn’t really mind our smoking,” he said. “He chiefly wants not to have it brought to his notice.”
“Yes, but Maddox does,” said David. “I wish he’d catch you at it. You wouldn’t sit comfortable for a week or two.”
David pranced into the footpath; there was a limit to the amount of mud that it was convenient to carry on your shoes.
“Let’s walk a bit,” he said; “I’m blown.”
They moderated their pace to a walk, and David squeezed his hands into his pockets—a difficult operation as they were glued together with wet.
“Several fellows have asked me about Maddox,” he said, “and I don’t know that the deuce they’re after. Hughes has, for instance. Hughes used to be a ripper, but he’s different somehow now. He asked me the other day if Maddox had become a saint, and if I’d converted him. What the devil was he talking about? I don’t like Hughes as much as I used. He told some filthy tale in dormitory the other night, and some of the fellows laughed. I laughed too: I supposed it was polite, but I didn’t see a hang what it all meant.”