Steve paused.
“Kirk,” he said then, “how would you like a round or two with the small gloves, just to get things off your mind for a spell and pass the time? My dad said he found it eased him mighty good.”
Kirk stared at him.
“Just a couple of rounds,” urged Steve. “And you can go all out at that. I shan’t mind. Just try to think I’m some guy that’s been picking on you and let me have it. See what I mean?”
For the first time that day the faint ghost of a grin appeared on Kirk’s face.
“I wonder if you’re right, Steve?”
“I know I’m right. And, say, don’t think I don’t need it, too. I ain’t known Miss Ruth all this time for nothing. You’ll be doing me a kindness if you knock my face in.”
The small gloves occupied a place of honour to themselves in a lower drawer. It was not often that Kirk used them in his friendly bouts with Steve. For ordinary occasions the larger and more padded species met with his approval. Steve, during these daily sparring encounters, was amiability itself; but he could not be counted upon not to forget himself for an occasional moment in the heat of the fray; and though Kirk was courageous enough, he preferred to preserve the regularity of his features at the expense of a little extra excitement.
Once, after a brisk rally, he had gone about the world looking as if he was suffering from mumps, owing to a right hook which no one regretted more than Steve himself.
But to-day was different; and Kirk felt that even a repetition of that lethal punch would be welcome.