"Well?" he asked lamely.
"Who said that that blackguard didn't look like a tramp? He does—any ass can see that—but the others don't. They're better dressed—roughly, I'll admit, but better. But they're disguised. Whoever saw chaps of their supposed position—labourers you'd call 'em—smoking cigarettes out of gold-mounted holders?"
"Oh! Eh?" ejaculated Hugh, his breath rather taken away.
"You didn't notice, then?"
"Er—no."
"Nor you, Clive?"
"No. But I saw it, if you can see the difference in what seems rather a contradictory statement. What'd Old B. call that if he were taking us in classics?"
"Hang old B.!" declared Bert irreverently.
It made the others flush to hear him speak in such fashion. Bert say such a thing of Old B., one of his particular favourites! Clive and Hugh looked askance at the comrade they knew as a rule as a smooth-spoken, wool-gathering fellow. Here he was decidedly emphatic—brusque, to say the least of it, in fact quite rude, and hurling names about in a manner which might be that of Masters', but was certainly not that customary to Bert Seymour. Hugh wondered what next was coming. Clive grinned sheepishly, and then suddenly straightened his features. Half an hour before he wouldn't have minded Bert's seeing that grin of derision. Now he was positively afraid.
"Er—oh—er, yes," he said lamely.