“Not much,” owned Myron ruefully. “I saw a couple of fellows at high school fight once, but that’s about all.”
“Never fought yourself?”
Myron shook his head almost apologetically. “No, I never had occasion to.”
Joe snorted. “You mean you never had a chance to find an occasion,” he said derisively. “You were kept tied up to the grand piano in the drawing-room, I guess. Think of a husky guy like you getting to be seventeen years old and never having any fun at all! Gee, it’s criminal! Your folks have got a lot to answer for, Foster, believe me! Here, stand up here and put your fists up and show me what you know—or don’t know.”
Myron obeyed and faced the other awkwardly. Joe groaned.
“Gee, ain’t you the poor fish? Stick that foot out so you can move about. That’s it. Now I’m going to tap you on the shoulder, the left shoulder. Don’t let me!” But Myron did let him, although he thrashed both his arms about fearsomely. “Rotten! Watch me, not my hands. Now look out for your face!”
A minute later Joe dropped his hands, shook his head and leaned dejectedly against a corner of the table. “It’s no use, kiddo, it’s no use! You’ll be the lamb going to the slaughter tomorrow. Ain’t any one ever taken the least interest in your education? What are you going to do when that Eldredge guy comes at you?”
Myron smiled wanly. “I guess I’ll just have to do the best I can,” he said. “Maybe he isn’t much better than I am.”
“Don’t kid yourself. When a guy picks a quarrel the way he did it means he knows a bit. Still, at that——” Joe stopped and stared thoughtfully at the wall. Then: “What’s his full name?” he asked.