‘Well, a stick then—a burnt stick;’ and Guy laughed.
‘I like him,’ said George, ‘and I am rather sorry for him too. What do you think, Hugo?’
Hugo was sitting on the table. He smiled his vague absent-minded smile.
‘Do you know, I don’t believe I’ve ever thought about him,’ he said, and we all laughed at Hugo.
He did not come for thirty-five minutes. That was like Walter too—just to spoil it by keeping every one waiting too long. Hugo was late very often, but no one minded it in Hugo. In Walter they did, but I suppose that was not Walter’s fault.
Guy kept saying:
‘I shall tell him what I think of him,’ and looking out of the window.
He was in a hurry when he did come. Guy saw him first, coming across the Broad from New College Lane. I looked out too and saw him, but he was running and I could only see a figure scurrying along past the corner of the Sheldonian. Then we heard him on the stairs. He was coming upstairs very fast, and stumbled on a loose rod or something at the top. We heard a great scrabble and bump, and then he tumbled against the door and came in.
‘I am sorry,’ he began, ‘awfully sorry I was late.’
He looked round, rather timidly, I thought—but Walter wasn’t timid really. ‘I had to finish some things.’ He was blinking, for the sun shone straight in through the window into his eyes, and the staircase was dark.