The older man shook his head. "Queer sky!" he answered briefly.
The younger looked questioningly at Willard. "You'll have to get a gait on you if you hope to beat Morris with that," he said. "What's up, Willard? Don't you want that prize?"
"Of course I do." His voice sounded dull, even to himself. "You aren't any too sympathetic, you fellows——" he tried to feel injured.
The older man came nearer. "What's that white thing there? Good Lord, Will, you're not going to try a figure——"
Willard brushed rapidly over the shadowy outline. "No—that was just a sketch. The whole thing's just a sort of——"
"The whole thing's just a bluff!" interrupted the younger man, decidedly. "It's not what you told us about at all—and it's not good, anyway. It looks as if a tornado had struck it! You said it was to be late afternoon—it's nearer midnight, as far as I can see! What's that tree lying around for?"
His tone was abusive, but a genuine concern and surprise was underneath it. He looked furtively at his older friend behind Willard's back. The other shook his head expressively.
Willard bit his lip. "I only wanted to try—it won't necessarily stay that way," he explained. He wished he cared more for what they said. He wished they did not bore him so unspeakably. More than all, he wished they would go.
The younger one whistled softly. "Pretty late in the day to be making up your mind, I should say," he remarked. "When's it going to dry in? Morris has been working like a horse on his for six weeks. He's coming on, too—splendid colour!"
Willard lit a cigarette. "Damn Morris!" he said casually. The older man drew on his glove and turned to go.