“There was only one thing I clearly understood about that business, and that was that you ran up against a bigger man than you could handle!” said Santenel, when they reached Morgan’s room.
“Oh, don’t say anything more about it!”
Santenel took a seat by the fire, while Dade applied liberal douches of hot water to his battered head.
“But I want to know about it. I stood behind one of those trees while you were engaged with that big two-fisted cyclone, and I had my curiosity aroused. My advice to you is to keep away from him. He’s too much for you. What did he tackle you about? I couldn’t just make out!”
Dade dropped the hot towel he had been holding to his face, walked to a drawer, drew out a photograph and threw it into Santenel’s lap.
“That!”
“Quarreling about this girl?”
“Yes, if you must know. I didn’t care anything for her—not a thing! and I only went with her to spite him and make him jealous. I was fool enough to think it might drive him to drink. Either he didn’t care for her as much as I supposed, or that story of his all-absorbing appetite for liquor is a fairy-tale. I found out that I was wasting my time, and I threw her over. He heard about it, and he—well, you saw what he did!”
His face crimsoned; not with shame for his treatment of Rosalind Thornton, but because he had been worsted so completely by Starbright, and the memory of it stung him to the quick.
“A handsome girl!” commented Santenel. “Well, you failed!”