“Hot water be blowed! Cold water is what you want. Here, I’ll pour some out in the basin and you get to work.”
“Why didn’t you go to the game?” asked Ira, as he sopped a dripping wash cloth to his eye.
“Oh, I had something better to do.”
“Pool, I suppose,” sniffed Ira. “You do too much of that, Nead.”
“Well, you miss your guess, old top. I was out with Jimmy Fallon on his motorcycle. Say, that’s sport, all right, Rowly! Sixty-five miles an hour sometimes, and everything whizzing past so quick you couldn’t see it! I wish I could afford one of the things.”
“You’ll break your neck if you go rampaging around on one of those contraptions,” said Ira. “It isn’t safe, Nead.”
“Huh! That sounds fine from a fellow whose face looks like a beefsteak! You don’t see any black eyes or broken noses on me, do you?”
Ira laughed. “You’ve got the best of the argument,” he replied. “But some day you’ll come home with a broken neck if you’re not careful. Where’d you go?”
“Springfield. Took us forty minutes to go and less than that to get back. A motor cop tried to chase us once, but never had a chance. We left him standing.”
“Who is Jimmy Fallon?”