“Been to the movies, Hollins?” he asked conversationally.
“No, sir, just—just down town. It—it’s a nice night, sir, isn’t it?”
“Splendid!” Mr. Cade sounded quite enthusiastic. “Remarkable weather for the time of year. A trifle too warm for football, of course, but then every one doesn’t play football, eh?” Chick was conscious that the coach was looking intently at him in the half darkness, and again he tugged imperatively at his companion’s arm.
“Yes, sir,” responded Bert vaguely, “it surely is. Well, we’ll be getting—”
But just then there was a scratching sound and a match flared. Mr. Cade held the flame to his pipe, as he did so leveling his gaze across it in the direction of Chick. Then the light went out and a puff of smoke floated over the gate.
“What happened to your head, Burton?” asked the coach quietly.
There was a moment of silence. Then Chick answered confusedly: “Nothing much, sir. I—well, I was in Mooney’s and there was a fellow in there got to swinging his cue around and—”
“And you got in the way of it, eh? Hard luck. Better come inside and let me look at it, I think.”
“Oh, thanks, sir, but it’s quite all right! I’m going to put some arnica on it when I get to the room. It—it isn’t anything, really!”
“Probably not, but it seems to be still bleeding, and if I were you I wouldn’t go up to the hall that way.” The gate swung inward, Mr. Cade stood aside, and, after a moment of hesitation, Chick entered, followed by Bert. The coach occupied two big rooms on the lower floor of the old house. There was a living-room with a comfortably faded carpet on the floor and furniture of the black walnut age. On a big, round table, littered with magazines and books and a dozen other objects, was a wide-shaded electric lamp in whose radius of mellow light stood a huge arm-chair, not of the walnut period. Beyond was a sleeping room, furnished with Spartan simplicity, while nearby, across a narrow rear hall, was a bathroom. To the latter Mr. Cade led the way.