He was not discouraged by his host’s silence.
“I shan’t forget this, you know,” he continued. “You darned nearly saved my life. Can’t imagine what my people would have said, if I’d come home like that. You know how it is[Pg 96]—”
“No, I don’t,” interrupted Ritchie. “I’m a teetotaler.”
“Shows sense,” said the other warmly. “I think I’ll have to be one myself. My name’s Bradley.” He waited. “What’s yours?” he asked.
“Ritchie,” responded the other. “And as good as Bradley any day,” he added mentally.
In some respects, however, honesty obliged him to admit that he was not so good as Bradley.
Bradley, after stretching, got up. He was in his shirt sleeves, and Ritchie surveyed his tall, slender figure with the eye of a connoisseur in physiques. The fellow was young yet, not fully developed, but certainly those shoulders, that solid neck, that broad chest, were promising—very promising.
“Well, he probably eats too much meat,” thought Ritchie, with dejection. “Living like he does, he won’t last!”
In order to show his perfect ease and indifference, he began to wash, whistling when the process permitted.
“I must be badly in your way,” said the other, in his good-humored manner. “I’ll clear out, I think. Got a spare overcoat? I don’t like to go out like this.”