It says much for her iron self-control that she remained quiet at this point. A lesser person, after a far less tiring ordeal than she had passed through, would have found relief in some cry or exclamation—possibly even in a scream.
Against the far wall, breathing hard and fondling his left eye with a four-ounce glove, leaned Steve Dingle. His nose was bleeding somewhat freely, but this he appeared to consider a trifle unworthy of serious attention. On the floor, an even more disturbing spectacle, Kirk lay at full length. To Mrs. Porter’s startled gaze he appeared to be dead. He too, was bleeding, but he was not in a position to notice it.
“It’s all right, ma’am,” said Steve, removing the hand from his face and revealing an eye which for spectacular dilapidation must have rivalled the epoch-making one which had so excited his mother on a famous occasion. “It’s nothing serious.”
“Has Mr. Winfield fainted?”
“Not exactly fainted, ma’am. It’s like this. He’d got me clear up in a corner, and I seen it’s up to me if I don’t want to be knocked through the wall, so I has to cross him. Maybe I’d gotten a little worked up myself by then. But it was my fault. I told him to go all out, and he sure did. This eye’s going to be a pippin to-morrow.”
Mrs. Porter examined the wounded organ with interest.
“That, I suppose Mr. Dingle, is what you call a blue eye?”
“It sure is, ma’am.”
“What has been happening?”
“Well, it’s this way. I see he’s all worked up, sitting around doing nothing except wait, so I makes him come and spar a round to take his mind off it. My old dad, ma’am, when I was coming along, found that dope fixed him all right, so I reckoned it would do as much good here. My old dad went and beat the block off a fellow down our street, and it done him a lot of good.”