“I certainly do,” answered Clif emphatically. “Unless,” he added after an instant, “you care to apologize.” He hoped, when he had said it, that his tone hadn’t sounded as eager to Kemble as it had to him!
“Apologize? Sure! Why not?” replied the other readily. “That’s much the best way, eh? You know, I’m about a dozen pounds heavier than you, old scout, and a couple of inches taller, too, and I guess—here, put your arm out.” Clif obeyed and Kemble tucked his fingers under the other’s armpit. “Just as I thought. I can outreach you by two inches.”
“That makes no difference,” declared Clif warmly. “You said you’d fight me—”
“Yes, I know,” broke in Kemble soothingly, “but I’ve apologized, haven’t I?”
“No, you haven’t. You merely said you were willing to.”
“Oh, gosh, why the formality? All right, though. I apologize, Bingham, for—I say, what the dickens do I apologize for?”
His perplexity was so genuine that Clif’s severity relaxed in spite of himself. It was, he decided, no use trying to stay angry with this chap, and having reached that decision he felt much relieved, and laughed frankly at the puzzled Kemble. Whereupon Kemble’s brow cleared and he grinned back.
“You’re a perfect ass,” declared Clif indulgently.
“No one is perfect,” Kemble demurred modestly, “although some of us do come pretty close.”