The fat chap had shed his bathing suit and was climbing into his clothes when I arrived. He beamed at me and his whole face crinkled into smiles. I was so afraid that he was going to make a silly speech that I pushed his automatic into his hands and said, "You'd better take this, old man. The other party's in swift retreat and, from the condition of his wrist, I don't fancy you'll receive another billet-doux for some time to come."
"Well, I'm hanged if you're not the coolest chap I've ever laid eyes on," the fat man said admiringly.
"You were nearer being shot," I hinted, "and, if you don't mind me saying so, the sooner you struggle into those clothes of yours and get home to mother, the safer you'll be. I don't object to fighting for you once in a while, but I'll see you further before I make a habit of it."
"Um!" said the fat man, "I'm sorry. I'd hoped to persuade you to take it on permanently."
I thought at first that he was joking, but the way he looked at me showed that he was in deadly earnest. For all his flippancy there was something back of his eyes, a trace of fear that kept peeping out every now and then, that told me he went in danger of his life. I hated to have to refuse him, but I had very good reasons, which I intended to keep to myself, too, for not putting my life into danger too often. So I told him point-blank that if he wanted to hire a bodyguard he'd have to go somewhere else. He wasn't as put out at my reply as I would have expected. Instead he smiled up at me—for all his bulk I towered over him—and there was a touch of gameness in that smile that I rather liked. I couldn't help telling him just what I thought.
"I don't think you want anyone to look after you," I said. "You're as game as they make 'em. I'm pretty used to reading men—I've been in places where my life depended on my ability in that direction—and when I see a fellow smile like you're smiling now, you can take it from me that he's grit all through."
"They'll get me yet," he said with a sigh. "I'm handicapped, you see. I couldn't have sprinted along the beach the way you did. I'd have wheezed. Bellows gone and all that, you know. Too much fat, the doctor says."
"Now, you're just about right there. I don't like to be personal, but now you mention it, you don't seem to have the cut of an athlete."
"And you have," he said, as he insinuated himself into his collar. It was a trifle too small for his neck, and he had to coax it a lot before he got both ends to meet. "You're the type of man I take to instantly, Mr. ——."
He asked me a question with his eyes.