All at once Hal spoke, his college slang rudely jarring the old captain’s melancholy.
“That was some jolt I handed Mac, wasn’t it?” he laughed. “He’ll be more careful who he picks on next time. That’s about what he needed, a good walloping.”
“Eh? What?” murmured the old man, roused from sad musings.
“Such people have to get it handed to them once in a while,” the grandson continued. “There’s only one kind of argument they understand—and that’s this!”
He raised his right fist, inspected it, turning it this way and that, admiring its massive power, its adamantine bone and sinew.
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Hal, don’t do that!” exclaimed the captain. With strange eyes he peered at the young man.
Hal laughed uproariously.
“Some fist, what?” he boasted. “Some pacifier!”
As he turned toward the old man, his breath smote the captain’s senses.