"We've got to have a good, old, slam-bang fight sooner or later and then, perhaps, it'll be different. I'm not coming around asking you to be friends, or anything like that sort of rot, you know, but what I want you to know is this—is this—what I want you to understand is just how darned white that was of you!"
"All right," said Stover frigidly, because he was tremendously moved and in terror of showing it.
"That's not what I wanted to say," said Tough, frowning terrifically and kicking the floor. "I mean—I say, you know what I mean, don't you?"
"All right," said Stover gruffly.
"And I say," said Tough, remembering only one line of all he had come prepared to say, "if you'll let me, Stover, I should consider it an honor to shake your hand."
Dink gave his hand, trembling a little.
"Of course you understand," said Tough who thought he comprehended Stover's silence, "of course we fight it out some day."
"All right," said Stover gruffly.
Tough McCarty went away. Dink, left alone, clad in his voluminous football trousers, sat staring at the door, clasping his hands tensely between his knees, and something inside of him welled up, dangerously threatening his eyes—something feminine, to be choked instantly down.
He rose angrily, flung back his hair and filled his lungs. Then he stopped.