“I might have known there was Irish in you,” said Bert. “That’s how you come to like a scrap so well, Tommy.”
“I don’t like scraps. You never saw me pick a quarrel yet. No one ever did. Sometimes fellows resent what I say to ’em, but that’s their fault.”
“You came pretty close to having a scrap on your hands the other night over in Coles Wistar’s room,” Bert reminded him dryly.
“What of it? I didn’t start it. Chick called me a fat loafer, didn’t he? Then I said he was playing a rotten game of football, which was the gospel truth, and he got on his ear! He’s short-tempered, that guy.”
On the heels of that assertion Chick hurried into the room, looked surprised to see who the visitor was and said, “Hello, Tommy,” not very enthusiastically before turning to Bert. “Coming along?” he asked.
“Mooney’s? I think not, Chick.”
“Thought you said you would. You can change your mind quicker than any fellow I ever saw! Where’d you get to after supper? I wanted you to go over to Jim Galvin’s. Well, if you won’t come, all right. I’ve got to hurry.”
“Hope you have luck,” said Bert as Chick found a cap and stuck it on the back of his head.
“Well, it’s about time I did,” rejoined Chick as he opened the door. “See you later, old scout.”
“Mooney?” asked Tommy, when Chick had departed. “Who’s he?”