Now and again words spoken in a hollow tone drifted through the night and reached Terence in snatches.
Occasionally he answered, but it was evident that one of those moods was upon Rouse in which he loved to maintain a rambling monologue, content to speak his changing thoughts or to register opinions as they came to him without requiring any answer at all.
Most of the boys had travelled by train, but many had returned as they had come, by trap or bicycle; some were walking, however, and it was for this latter reason that Rouse and Terence had elected to walk too.
“We shall lose half the fun,” Rouse had affirmed, “if we do this thing in too great comfort. Let’s have the satisfaction of knowing that, as some of the kids have had to walk, we’ve walked too. It’s only sporting.”
He was talking again now. Terence pricked his ears politely.
“It is not,” he was saying, “until you have wheeled one of these infernal machines for about twelve miles without getting a ride even down a bit of a hill that you properly understand why they are called push-bikes.”
Terence turned to look at him.
Rouse was plodding a little in rear. It was pouring with rain and his overcoat was soaked and shining; rain was even dripping from his very ears. Yet the night was cheerfully illumined by his smile. Terence, who had a handbag in one hand and the other in his pocket, nodded ahead.
“We’re nearly there. You see those lights? That’s Harley!”
He stepped out with new hope. One might have imagined that he had no care in all the world.