“Oh, go to thunder!” said Chick shortly, and pulled a cap on his head. “The next time I ask you, you’ll know it, you blamed Miss Nancy.”
“Them’s hard words,” murmured Bert. “What time you coming back?”
“Some time before ten. Why?”
“Just wondered if you recalled the fact that you’re supposed to be in bed by that hour.”
“What? Who said so? Johnny hasn’t started that stuff yet, has he?”
“Even so, Chick. He specifically mentioned his wishes no later than yesterday. Every one in bed by ten sharp, were his words.”
“Well, he’s got a crust,” Chick declared. “That’s mid-season stuff. How’s he get that way?”
“I really can’t say, but, joking aside, Charles, do try to be home by nine-thirty or thereabouts, eh? These late hours—”
“Oh, shut up!” With his hand on the door, Chick made a final and pathetic appeal. “Be a good guy, Bert, won’t you? Listen, we’ll go to that place on West street, if you can’t stand Mooney’s.”
Bert waved the pencil in dismissal. “Run along to your disreputable acquaintances, Chick. Fact is, I’m not feeling lucky to-night. Besides, I got a slam on the shin this afternoon that tells me I wouldn’t enjoy tramping a couple of miles around a table. Some other time, O Wizard of the Cue.”