"What?"
"I know how men—other men—feel."
"Other men don't want to tackle one another, as a general thing, like bulldogs."
"Oh, yes! they recognize the instinct. They're ready to stamp on it. I wasn't ready. I'm glad to have met that instinct. It's a healthy old devil of an instinct. I respect it."
Peter was staring as if he did not know him.
"What was it, Osmond?" he asked again.
Osmond shook his head and laughed.
"I'll wash my hands," he said. "I feel as if there were dirt on them and the touch of clothes that are not mine." He stopped on his way to the bench where there was a basin and towel for hasty use. "Pete," he said, "you don't want to scrap a little, do you?"
He did not look like the same man. Light was in his face, overlying the flush of simple passions. He looked almost joyous. It was Peter who was distraught, older with a puzzled sadness.
"Don't!" he said. "Don't think of such devilment. There's no good in it. Why, we get over that when we are under twenty—except in an emergency."