“Of course he did,” replied the other impatiently. “Didn’t I say I met him? Ran right into him, almost, in front of that laundry over there.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Nothing but ‘Ah, Burton!’ or something like that.”
“What time was it, Chick?”
“Ten, or nearly. The clock struck when I got to West street. Talk about rotten luck! Why the dickens he was prowling around over there at that time of night, goodness only knows! If he had stopped I’d have given him a stall, but he just said ‘Ah, Burton’ in a kind of a funny tone and kept right on. I think he had something in his hand; a bag, I guess.”
“Maybe he’s going home over Sunday. There’s a train about ten-twenty, I think.”
“That’s so.” Silence fell again in Number 21 and continued for several minutes. Then Chick’s voice came once more. “Sort of wish I hadn’t run into him, Bert.”
“Me and you both,” agreed Bert.
“Of course it’s blamed poppycock, that ten o’clock bed rule, but he’s acting kind of snorty this fall and he may get on his ear about it. If he does, by gosh, I’ll tell him I’m no kid freshman to have to go to bed with the chickens!”