"With that hurt arm o' your'n, sonny," he began, "it's back to home, sweet home. And if that feller, Tom, licks y', w'y, I'll jes' nat'ally lick him."
"You couldn't lick him," informed Johnnie, turning his sandwich about in search for a location thin enough to admit of a first bite. "He's the strongest longshoreman in N'York. He can carry five sacks of flour on his back, and one under both arms."
Disdainfully One-Eye lifted his lone brow, and he passed over the remark. "The point is," he continued, "that if y' ever figger t' go back, now's the time."
Johnnie saw the argument. And to his own surprise he found himself willing to go. "Prob'ly Big Tom'll only pull my ear," he said philosophically. "And he won't do that much, even, if—if you'll go along."
"Will I!" cried One-Eye. "Wal, it'd take a twenty-mule team t' holt me back!"
"Honest?" For this fellow was a wag, and there was no telling what he really meant to do.
"If I don't, I'll eat my shaps!" promised One-Eye.
"Then I guess you better tie up my arm," went on Johnnie, which bit of inspired diplomacy sent the whole sympathizing group into whoops of laughter.
"Ain't he the ticket?" demanded one man.
One-Eye 'lowed that he was.