Distin shivered as if he were cold, and he forced a smile as he said hastily:—
“No: of course I don’t. It’s absurd.”
“What is?” said Gilmore.
“Your talking like this. It isn’t likely. I think it’s a great piece of nonsense, this searching the country.”
“Why, what would you do?” cried Macey.
“I—I—I don’t know,” cried Distin, who was taken aback. “Yes, I do. I should drive over to the station to see if he took a ticket for London, or Sheffield, or Birmingham, or somewhere. It’s just like him. He has gone to buy screws, or something, to make a whim-wham to wind up the sun.”
“No, he hasn’t,” said Macey sturdily; “he wouldn’t go and upset the people at home like that; he’s too fond of them.”
“Pish!” ejaculated Distin contemptuously.
“Distie’s sour because he is up so early, Gil,” continued Macey. “Don’t you believe it. Vane’s too good a chap to go off like that.”
“Bah! he is always changing about. Why, you two fellows call him Weathercock.”