An hour and a half later Hallyard walked into the smoking-room
looking depressed and worn, and flung himself into a chair.
"I thought you were going to Richmond with McQuae," I said.
"So did I," he answered.
"Had an accident?" I asked.
"Yes."
He was decidedly curt in his replies.
"Cart upset?" I continued.
"No, only me."
His grammar and his nerves seemed thoroughly shaken.
I waited for an explanation, and after a while he gave it.
"We got to Putney," he said, "with just an occasional run into a
tram-car, and were going up the hill, when suddenly he turned a
corner. You know his style at a corner--over the curb, across the
road, and into the opposite lamp-post. Of course, as a rule one is
prepared for it, but I never reckoned on his turning up there, and
the first thing I recollect is finding myself sitting in the middle
of the street with a dozen fools grinning at me.
"It takes a man a few minutes in such a case to think where he is
and what has happened, and when I got up they were some distance
away. I ran after them for a quarter of a mile, shouting at the
top of my voice, and accompanied by a mob of boys, all yelling like
hell on a Bank Holiday.
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