"No?"
"Not at all. I was itching for an excuse to get at him, and you provided one, that's all."
Herbert was somewhat taken aback by this frank confession.
"Well," he said slowly, "anyhow, you showed him up to that bunch of lickspittles. They were surprised."
"I fuf-fancy so. This whole town has got the notion that Rod Grant is simply it. They thought he would fight at the drop of the hat."
"What would you have done if he'd taken you up?"
"Whipped him," answered Phil confidently. "I've taken boxing lessons. What does he know about scientific fighting? I had made up my mum-mind to take care that it was a regular fight by rounds, with seconds and a referee to see fair play. I'd certainly fixed him that way, all right."
Still, to his annoyance, Rackliff seemed doubtful. "Perhaps you would, but if he'd ever got in one wallop——"
"Oh, you make me tut-tired!" exclaimed Springer.
"Well, even if you didn't butt in on my account, I'm much obliged, just the same. You're all right, Spring, old fel, and if I can do you a good turn I will. Perhaps I'll have the chance. Gee! I want a whiff. Have a smoke?"