“No one.”
“Who you going to fight?”
“I haven’t said I was going to fight, have I? I was just asking about it. Maybe I might have to fight some time, and——”
“Sure, that’s so. You might. You can’t ever tell, can you?” Joe picked up a pencil and beat a thoughtful tattoo on the blotter for a moment. Then: “Who is he? Do I know him?” he asked.
“Know who?” faltered Myron.
“This guy that’s after you. Come on, kiddo, open up! Come across! Let’s hear the story.”
So finally Myron told the whole thing, secretly very glad to do it, and Joe listened silently, save for an occasional grunt. When Myron had finished Joe asked: “So that’s it, eh? Tomorrow morning at a quarter to seven at the brickyard. Where’s this brickyard located?”
“I don’t know. I must ask some one.”
“Yeah. Now tell me this, kid—I mean Foster: What do you know about fighting?”