“Why, in the woods, I guess. Sorry if I hurt you much. Maybe I hit harder than I needed to, Goodloe.”
“Oh, that’s all right. I had it coming to me. What do you mean by the woods, though? Oh, I know! You said you lived in a lumber camp, didn’t you?”
“Not exactly,” replied Ira, seating himself on a corner of the desk. “I don’t live in a lumber camp, but I’ve spent some time in them. The lumbermen are mostly pretty handy with their fists. You sort of pick up fighting when you’re around with the drive.”
“Guess I’d better spend a few months in the Maine woods,” said Gene Goodloe ruefully. “Well, what’s your idea, Rowland? Want to try it again?”
“Any time you say, thanks.”
“Suits me. We’d better not advertise, though. Faculty’s a bit down on scraps. I don’t see why you and I can’t just take a walk, say, tomorrow morning early, eh? Do you know where the brick-yards are, over across Apple Street? They aren’t used nowadays and the fellows generally pull off their scraps there.”
“I don’t know where you mean,” said Ira, “but I can find the place all right.”
“Sure! Or you might meet me at the West Gate. It’s on our way. Any time you say after six-thirty.”
“Six-thirty will suit me. The West Gate’s the one over that way, to the left, isn’t it?”