Summertown quelled the interruption at the end of a half-butt and continued to state his case.
"Well, when you seemed doubtful about coming, Crabtree butted in. He'd heard all ex's were to be paid. I shall be dans le consommé, as the French say, if you cry off."
O'Rane, who appeared to be tired and subdued, promised to think over the proposal.
"When do your rotten results come out?" persisted Summertown. "Time's getting on, you know. I want to be back in town by next season."
"I'll let you know to-night," said O'Rane, crossing the room and making a seat for himself at the end of Arden's divan.
I guessed then—what I afterwards found out for certain—that he was beginning to repent of his recent quixotism. The big, warm, comfortable house threw into striking relief the shanties and bleak skies that were likely to be his home and shelter for some years to come.
"Well, don't be a dirty dog," said Summertown, in conclusion. "If I get stuck with Crabtree.... Steady!"
He picked up his cue and began knocking the balls about as the door opened, and Crabtree entered. A moment or two passed before we could try a fresh cast in conversation, and it is more than probable that the newcomer guessed we had been discussing him.
"Aren't you lads going to dress?" he inquired, as he straightened his tie before a mirror and glanced at his watch.