"I'm not going on any more either," said John Andros. "I've had enough of this thing."
Again they looked at each other, sulkily this time, as if each suspected the other of urging him to a renewal of the fight. Markey spat out a mouthful of blood from a cut lip; then he cursed softly, and picking up his coat and vest, shook off the snow from them in a surprised way, as if their comparative dampness was his only worry in the world.
"Want to come in and wash up?" he asked suddenly.
"No, thanks," said John. "I ought to be going home—my wife'll be worried."
He too picked up his coat and vest and then his overcoat and hat. Soaking wet and dripping with perspiration, it seemed absurd that less than half an hour ago he had been wearing all these clothes.
"Well—good night," he said hesitantly.
Suddenly they both walked toward each other and shook hands. It was no perfunctory hand-shake: John Andros's arm went around Markey's shoulder, and he patted him softly on the back for a little while.
"No harm done," he said brokenly.
"No—you?"
"No, no harm done."