The Spider drew back, staring from Ravenslee's tall, alert figure to his bruised knuckles and back again, while his companions stood by in mute and wide-eyed wonder.
"Spider," said Ravenslee, shaking his head in grave reproof, "you were rather slow that time—very foolish to leave your point uncovered and offer me your jaw like that, you know!"
Five pairs of eyes stared at the speaker with a new and suddenly awakened interest, and beholding in him that lithe assurance of poise, that indefinable air that bespeaks the trained pugilist and which cannot be mistaken, elbows were nudged, and heads wagged knowingly.
Ravenslee's grey eyes were shining, and his pale cheeks tinged with colour.
"Ah, Spider," said he, "life is rather worth while after all, isn't it? Spider, I like you better and better; come, don't be a surly Spider, shake hands!"
"T' hell wid youse!" growled the Spider, covering up again, and, though his face was sulky yet was no trace of contempt there now.
"I suppose," mused Ravenslee, looking him over with knowledgeful eye, "yes, I judge, as you are now, you would fight about seven or eight pounds over your ringside weight. You'd have to give me eighteen pounds! Spider—I could eat you! Come, shake hands and let's go and fetch Spike."
Now, speaking, Ravenslee smiled, with eyes as well as lips; beholding which, the Spider grew slowly upright, his knotted fists unclenched, and, staring Ravenslee in the eyes, he reached out slowly and by degrees and grasped the proffered hand.
"Say," said he, falling to violent mastication of his eternal chewing gum, "who'd you have d'mitts on with last—an' when?"
"Oh, it seems ages ago!" sighed Ravenslee. "But where's Spike?"