“Why all the joy? Most of my friends seem to think it is my funeral.”
“Say, Donnie,” Spike said earnestly, “I bin watchin’ ya pretty close for de past year, an’ ya sure bin ridin’ for a fall. Another year of de way ya bin hittin’ her up an’ y’d have taken de count of ten an’ be sittin’ wid de stew-bums. Ya bin fightin’ an exhibition wid life wid soft twelve-ounce gloves, an’ de both of ya fightin’ under wraps an’ pullin’ y’r punches. From now on de fight will be on de square an’ to a finish wid bare knuckles. De guy in de other corner will hand ya some awful jolts, an’ y’ll have to do some pretty fast work wid y’r dukes an’ pins to keep away from de slumber swat. But, Donnie, ya got de goods in ya. Nearly four years in an engineerin’ course in de college gives ya a better start than most of us guys. I’m backin’ ya to win.”
He seized Donald’s hand, and his battered face filled with tenderness as he looked up at his friend. “Good luck, boy. Keep a stiff upper lip, an’ don’t forget that old John Barleycorn’s a bum second.” At the door he turned: “How ya fixed for kale, Donnie?”
“You get out!” smiled Donald.
Spike grinned as though pleased at the rebuff, and closed the door.
For some time after Spike’s departure Donald sat lost in meditation. The philosophy of the ex-pugilist, presented in the vernacular of the prize-ring, had affected him deeply. “Ya bin fightin’ an exhibition wid life, but from now on de fight is on de square,” Spike had said. True enough, he thought, life had been soft and easy with him. But now it was going to be “on de square.” His strong mouth set in a straight line, and involuntarily he squared his shoulders.
Donald left the hotel by the side door to avoid meeting several friends who had gathered in the lobby. He had an hour to wait for the sailing of the boat for Bangor. Unconsciously he walked towards the hill. An overwhelming sense of loneliness swept over him as he stood before his home, looming huge and white in the bright starlight of the winter night.
At the first sound of his master’s step on the pavement a big collie dog rushed forth and flung itself bodily on the young man, whimpering in sheer joy. Standing on hindlegs with paws on his chest, he tried to lick Donald’s face. The noise was apparently heard within the house, for a shade was raised and Donald’s mother peered out into the night. Silencing the dog’s joyous whines as best he could, Donald crouched low behind the hedge until the blind was lowered.
“Good-bye, old pal,” Donald whispered, his arms about the collie’s shaggy neck. The dog turned slowly and unwillingly toward the house.
In the meantime, within the house, John McLean and his wife were discussing the possible result of the father’s seeming severity.