“Mike, go over there and get that other chair. Don’t try to rob a little fellow like Jonesy,” Joe told him.
Pain swathed the features of Mr. Jones. To be publicly addressed as “Jonesy” was bad enough, but when coupled with an insulting reference to his size, it was too much.
Kelly finally seated himself by the invalid’s head and remarked with a smile of pleasure, “Joe, they tell me you’re about dead. Is there anything in it?”
“Listen to words of warning,” suggested the injured man. “Even with my game leg, it would take a bigger man than you to put me out of business.”
Kelly disregarded the challenge. “Is there any truth in the report that landing on your head is all that saved you?”
Joe grunted in disdain and Mr. Jones openly yawned at such commonplace humor.
Regardless of popular displeasure, Kelly went on. “I understand that your head ruined the truck?”
“Mike, you are a heavy kidder.” Joe smiled affectionately at his big friend. “Your conversation is usually agreeable, sometimes interesting, but never reliable. You guessed wrong about a truck. I ran into a seven passenger touring car.”
“Ha, a chariot of the awful rich. In the excitement did you surreptitiously abstract any diamonds, tires, gasoline or other valuables shaken loose by your dome?”
“No such luck, Mike. There was only a girl in the car.”