Stover squirmed uneasily on his chair. There was no malice in the teasing, and yet he was at a loss how to turn it.
The Gutter Pup, as president of the Sporting Club and chief authority on the life and works of the late Marquis of Queensberry, examined the embarrassed Stover, running professional fingers over his legs and arms.
"You're the fellow who tried to fight the whole Green House, aren't you?" he said, immensely interested.
"Why, yes."
"Good nerve," said the Gutter Pup. "You've got something the style of Beans Middleton, who stood up to me for ten rounds in the days of the old Seventy-second Street gang. I'll train you up some time. You'd do well with the crouching style—good reach, quick on the trigger and all that sort of thing. Like fighting?"
"Why, I—I don't know," said Stover helplessly, unable to make out whether the Gutter Pup spoke in jest.
"Modest and brave!" said the irrepressible Finnegan.
The conversation drifted away; Stover, with a sigh of relief, obliterated himself in a corner, feeling immense distances between himself and the laughing group that continued to exchange rapid banter.
"Dennis, they tell me you're fresher than ever."
"Sir, you compliment me."