“Longley,” he answered.
“Longley! Do you mean that Brew Longley battered you up like that? What was the row? Great Scott, Hugh, you’re an awful mess! What did you do to him?”
“Not much, I’m afraid,” replied Hugh dejectedly. “I got in a few, but he was too clever for me.” He turned to the mirror over the dresser and viewed his reflection judicially, the wet sponge trickling water on the rug. “He’s a ripping good fighter, Bert,” he added with what sounded like unwilling admiration.
Bert, hands in pockets, gazed fascinatedly at his room-mate’s countenance. He whistled tunelessly and under his breath. Hugh went back to the basin.
“I fancy I flattened his nose for him, anyway,” he said more cheerfully.
“Well,” said Bert, emerging from his trance, “I hope to thunder you did something to him! For he’s certainly just about ruined you! Here, turn around and let’s see the damage.”
Obediently, Hugh stopped laving his face and Bert took stock of the contusions and lacerations. “Your eye will be a wonder tomorrow,” he murmured admiringly. “And you won’t be able to talk very well for a day or two with that lip. Was he wearing brass-knuckles, for the love of Mike? That cut on your cheek isn’t much—when it stops bleeding. Wait till I get some peroxide. Keyes has a bottle. Keep on sponging. I’ll be right back.”
When he returned Hugh, in spite of directions, had ceased using the sponge and was thoughtfully studying two pairs of bruised and swollen knuckles, wiggling his left thumb experimentally the while.
“Well,” exclaimed Bert, “you must have got in a few on him from the looks of those! Thumb hurt?”
“Not much, I fancy. I was afraid maybe it was sprained. I say, Bert, I can’t go to supper, eh?”