“Bowles, of course! Stupid of me, eh, what? Fellows——”
“Cut it out, Nick,” begged Hugh. “Bowles ran up to see how things were getting on, don’t you know. Got here for the game and had the time of his life, didn’t you, Bowles?”
“Good for Bowles!” cried the incorrigible Nick. “He’s a true sport! You’ve only to look at him to know that!” Nick threw himself on the window-seat, only to arise as quickly and lift from the cushion the battered remains of what had once been a most respectable derby hat. Nick viewed it with surprise and awe, and—I fear—delight! “Bowles, is this yours?” he asked tremulously.
A silence fell over the room. Then someone chuckled and a burst of laughter arose as Bowles meekly assented.
“I’m awfully sorry,” declared Nick, looking quite otherwise. “I’ll buy you another, Bowles.”
“It’s of no consequence, sir,” said Bowles. “In fact, sir, it was already—er—a bit damaged. A young gentleman at the football game, sir, used it—er—quite roughly, sir!”
The laughter redoubled and into it, having knocked without receiving any answer, came a half-dozen fellows; Keyes and Roy Dresser and Tom Hanrihan, of the first, and Brewster Longley and Neil Ayer, of the second, and Wallace Cathcart, non-combatant.
“Proctor!” shouted Ted. “Less noise, gentlemen!”
“Hello, Wal!” greeted the irrepressible Nick. “Just in time, old top!” He flourished the squashed and mutilated hat. “We’re celebrating the finish of the Derby!”
“Too much row, Wal?” asked Bert.