He gasped the words.
With the dying out of that senseless fury a peculiar feeling of elation came to Thompson, as if he had proved himself upon a doubtful matter. He was ready to go on. But why? That question urged itself upon him. He recalled that he had struck the first blow.
"I think—I started this, didn't I?" he said. "I'm willing to finish it, if you want to—but isn't it—isn't it rather foolish?"
"No end foolish. Don't think we'd ever finish," Ashe said with a gleam of his old humor. "Let's call it a draw. I feel a bit ashamed of myself by now."
Somewhere, sometime, Mr. Thompson had heard that men who fought shook hands when the struggle was ended—a little ceremony that served to restore the status quo. He had not the least rancor against Tommy Ashe. It had all seeped away in the blind fury of that clash. He thrust out a hand upon which the knuckles were cut and bloody. And the man upon whose countenance he had bruised those knuckles took it with a wry self-conscious smile.
Then they drew a little apart and squatted on the bank of the creek to lave their battered faces in the cold water.
For a period of possibly five minutes they sat dabbling water-soaked handkerchiefs upon their faces. The blood ceased to ooze from Thompson's nostrils. Tommy Ashe looked over at his late antagonist and remarked casually.
"We're a pair of capital idiots, eh, Thompson?"
Mr. Thompson tried to smile. But his countenance was swelling rapidly and was in no condition for smiling. He mustered up a grimace, nodding assent.
"I hope Sophie didn't see us making such asses of ourselves," Tommy continued ruefully.