“And he can use his fists.”
“I should rather think he can. I put on the gloves with him one day and he sent me flying. But what has that got to do with it?”
“Everything. Do you think Distie could have pitched into Vane with a stick and not got something back?”
“Why, of course he couldn’t.”
“Well, there you are, then. He hasn’t got a scratch.”
“Hist! What’s that,” said Macey, softly.
“Sounded like a window squeaking.”
“Come away,” whispered Macey taking his companion by the arm, and leading him over the turf before he stopped some distance now from the house.
“What is it?” said Gilmore then.
“That noise; it was old Distie at his window. I could just make him out. He had been listening to what we said.”