“You swine!” he shouted. “Take those gloves off, and put your hands up!” He was tugging at his own to get them off.
“Go on, you silly ass!” said I. “What is there to fight about?”
He was mad with passion, and chucked his gloves down under the table.
“By God, Munro,” he cried, “if you don’t take those gloves off, I’ll go for you, whether you have them on or not.”
“Have a glass of soda water,” said I.
He made a crack at me. “You’re afraid of me, Munro. That’s what’s the matter with you,” he snarled.
This was getting too hot, Bertie. I saw all the folly of the thing. I believed that I might whip him; but at the same time I knew that we were so much of a match that we would both get pretty badly cut up without any possible object to serve. For all that, I took my gloves off, and I think perhaps it was the wisest course after all. If Cullingworth once thought he had the whiphand of you, you might be sorry for it afterwards.
But, as fate would have it, our little barney was nipped in the bud. Mrs. Cullingworth came into the room at that instant, and screamed out when she saw her husband. His nose was bleeding and his chin was all slobbered with blood, so that I don’t wonder that it gave her a turn.
“James!” she screamed; and then to me: “What is the meaning of this, Mr. Munro?”
You should have seen the hatred in her dove’s eyes. I felt an insane impulse to pick her up and kiss her.