“So have I!”
“You—What?”
“My arms,” said Wint cheerfully. “With a fist on each one and a punch in each fist.”
Chase looked uncertain. “They’ll try some trick.”
Wint touched the other’s arm. “Don’t worry. They’ve got to fight in the open, now. The time’s short. And I’m not afraid of them in the open.”
“They’re treacherous. They’ll strike behind your back.”
“I’m not worried.”
But the older man was worried. He said little more; nevertheless his concern was plain. Wint was sorry, a little disappointed. His father’s uneasiness did not affect his own confidence. He was as sure of himself as before. But he had expected his father to be as confident as himself, as sure. To him, the matter of Lutcher simply offered an opportunity for a telling blow; but it was evident that to his father the incident was rather a threat than an opportunity.
He and his father walked downtown together; they separated when Wint turned aside toward the fire-engine house where his office was. The older man gave him a word of warning there. “Go carefully, Wint,” he urged. “Watch yourself.”
“Don’t worry.”