Reggie, left alone with Jim, turned his quizzical gaze upon the latter. It was evident that Reggie was very much puzzled by Jim’s strange behavior. And when Reggie scented a mystery he headed straight for the solution of it with a doggedness worthy of a better cause.
“Hard luck the team’s been runnin’ in lately, old chap?” he began.
“No hard luck about it. Bad playing. Bad team work,” snapped Jim.
“Well, you shouldn’t worry, anyway, old chap, you really shouldn’t,” reproved Reggie, mildly. “Bad for the game you know, and bad for the good old constitution.”
Jim looked at him, a slow anger in his eyes.
“If I never had anything worse than my constitution to worry about, I’d be all right,” he said, and turned his back upon Reggie, hoping that such action would terminate the conversation. But Reggie, in sublime ignorance, blundered on.
“I say, Jim, I’ve got it now. Worried because Clara couldn’t come on with Mabel, eh? No doubt she wanted to come—rather. I say, old chap,” he added, archly, lighting another gold-tipped cigarette, “better tend to your knittin’.”
Jim, who had risen and was moodily pacing up and down, stopped and looked at Reggie.
“What’s that?”
The quiet of his tone disarmed Reggie, who went on beaming pleasantly.