Five minutes later Hugh came out of School Hall and walked toward them again. Seeing his face, Nick breathed easier. If it was anything bad the Duke wouldn’t smile like that. When he reached the steps Hugh stopped. By that time the smile didn’t look so good to Nick. There was something not quite regular about it!
“Anything wrong?” asked Yetter.
“Rather, in a way,” answered Hugh. Bert noticed that his friend avoided looking at him as he made the announcement. “My folks—that is, my mother doesn’t want me to play. She telegraphed the faculty. Bonner—Bonner’s a bit—peevish.”
The silence was broken by the dry tones of Nick.
“Strange he should be,” he murmured.
Hugh nodded, smiled, and turned away in the direction of Lothrop. A chorus of regrets, of protests, of questions went after him, but he kept on. Bert watched him disappear into the building before he jumped up and hurried after.
“What,” demanded Bert, as he closed the door behind him, “what is this—this”—unconsciously he adopted Hugh’s phrase of the other evening—“this piffling poppycock?”
Hugh, standing at the window, one knee on the cushion, turned and smiled conciliatingly. “Mother telegraphed to faculty. She doesn’t want me to play. She—she’s afraid I’d get hurt, don’t you know. Of course, it’s bally nonsense, but there you are, what?”
Bert advanced into the room and shied his cap to the table. Then he plunged his hands in his pockets and observed sweetly:
“Must have been an awful surprise to you!”