McGuire took another look at him, then hurried into the bathroom. He found a small bowl and a towel. He filled the bowl with tepid water, and came back to Duffy again.
“Come on, soldier,” he said. “Let’s make you look a bit shipshape.”
“Suppose you go take a pill,” Duffy said with difficulty.
“Now come on.” McGuire put the bowl on the floor and dropped the towel into the water. He squeezed the towel and began wiping Duffy’s face with awkward care. He was as tender as a woman to Duffy.
Duffy said suddenly, “Hi, you rat, be careful of my nose.”
McGuire said, “You don’t call that a nose any more, do you?”
When he cleared the dried blood away, he took the bowl into the bathroom and changed the water. Deep down, a burning anger smouldered against those who had done this to Duffy. McGuire was one of those guys who made few friends, but when he had picked one, he stuck. He was, on the surface, casual and a great kidder, but he’d stick like a burr and fight once he had found a friend. Duffy and he had knocked along together on the Tribune for some little while. They had quarrelled, kidded and doubled-crossed each other, but let anyone else start anything then they’d side up together and beat hell out of the intruder.
He filled the bowl with water again and walked back to Duffy.
“For God’s sake, you must be losing your grip or something,” Duffy mumbled from the couch.
“What now?”