“Yes—no—I don’t know. I ought to.” But Myron seated himself at the window instead of at the table and took one leg into his interlaced hands. Joe watched him solicitously. After a minute Myron asked with elaborate unconcern: “Did you ever fight any one, Dobbins?”
“Me?” Joe chuckled. “Well, I’ve been in a couple of scraps in my time. Why?”
“Just wondered. What—how do you go at it?”
“Me?” Joe leaned precariously back in his chair. “Well, I ain’t got but one rule, Foster, and that’s: Hit ’em first and often.”
“Oh! I—I suppose boxing is—quite an art.”
“Don’t know much about boxing, kiddo. Where I come from they don’t go in for rules and regulations. When you fight—you fight: and about the only thing that’s barred is kicking the other fellow in the head when he’s down! A real earnest scrap between a couple of lumber-jacks is about the nearest thing to battle, murder and sudden death that you’re likely to see outside the movies!”
“I didn’t mean that sort of fighting,” said Myron distastefully. “Fellows at—well, say, at school don’t fight like that, of course.”
“No, I don’t suppose so. I guess they stick to their fists. Anyway, they did where I went to school. We used to have some lively little scraps, too,” added Joe with a reminiscent chuckle. “I remember—But, say, what’s your trouble, Foster? Why are you so interested in fighting?”
“Oh, I was just wondering,” answered Myron evasively.
“Yeah, I know all about that. Who you been fighting?”