Of course he apologized.
I felt like thrashing him, but, as he was a brother of my best friend, the pawnbroker, I forbore.
"I'm awful sorry, old boy," he said, "but no great damage is done, and I hope you're not angry with me."
"No, but to tell you the truth, I feel awfully put out," I replied.
Harper has another boy, about the age of my youngest, and like all Brooklyn lads he is precocious.
He came in while I was there, crying for keeps.
"Hello, what's happened?" asked his father.
"Been fightin' again."
"With that Irish boy, I suppose."