Bert was silent for a moment. Then: “What did Bonner say?” he demanded.
Hugh smiled ruefully. “He was crusty a bit, if you know what I mean.”
“I think I do,” said Bert grimly. “Does he—suspect anything?”
“Oh, dear, no! Why should he?”
“Well, he might. Hang it, Hugh, I’ve got a half a mind not to play!”
Hugh laughed. “Change it, old dear! Bonner’s fit to be tied now. If you tried anything like that on he’d just simply blow up—Bing! Just like that! Don’t be a silly ass, please.”
“But, Hugh, I wish you hadn’t! I feel so mean, don’t you see? And suppose Bonner doesn’t put me in, after all! Suppose he plays Siedhof or Zanetti! Suppose, even if he does put me in, I don’t play decently, or——”
“Suppose you’re a piffling idiot, and shut up! Bonner’s got to put you in. And you’ve got to play the way you did Thursday and you’re going to! Now come on out and get some air.”
Bert didn’t stir at once, though. Instead, he studied his knuckles a long moment, leaning forward in his chair. Then, rather huskily: “Hugh, you’re a mighty good sort,” he faltered. “And I’ve been such a rotter that I don’t see why you want to—to——”