“Nead? Don’t know him, I guess. But I thought you said you didn’t know any fellow who’d act as second for you.”
“Well, I did think of Nead, but—he doesn’t—” Ira hesitated and his visitor laughed understandingly.
“Not the sort you want in a pinch, eh? Well, we won’t Nead him. Rotten pun, wasn’t it? So long, Rowland. I must be getting back to hall. Much obliged for that note, you know. Glad we got together so nicely, too. I guess there won’t be any hard feelings, no matter who pulls down the purse! Six-thirty at the West Gate then. I’ll be there.”
Gene Goodloe nodded affably and took his departure, leaving Ira looking perplexedly at the door that had closed behind him.
“I wonder,” thought Ira, “what there is to fight for? He says he was in the wrong and has apologised. I’m certainly satisfied. Then what do we scrap about in the morning?” But there was no satisfactory answer to that conundrum and he went back to his books. When, just before six o’clock, Nead came in, he had conquered his Greek lesson and had dipped into Algebra.
Nead viewed him contemptuously as he skimmed his hat across the room to his bed. “Gee,” he said in disgust, “I hope you’re not going to be a ‘grind,’ Rowland. That would be the limit.”
“Hope not myself,” replied Ira. “By the way, Nead, what’s your other name, if you have one?”
“Humphrey.”
“Thanks. Mine’s Ira.”