When Mike had finished, one drink later, Peter Jeffers filled the glasses for the third time and leaned back in his chair. “Tell me one thing, ol’ buddy, and think about it before you answer. If you had a chance to get out of it gracefully, would you take back what you said?”
Mike the Angel thought it over. The sweep hand on the chronometer made its rounds several times before he answered. Then, at last, he said: “No. No, I wouldn’t.”
Jeffers pursed his lips, then said judicially: “In that case, you’re not doing badly at all. There’s nothing wrong with you except the fact that you’re in love.”
Mike downed the third drink fast and stood up. “Thanks, Pete,” he said. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
“Wait just one stinkin’ minute,” said Jeffers firmly. “Sit down.”
Mike sat.
“What do you intend to do about it?” Jeffers asked.
Mike the Angel grinned at him. “What the hell else can I do but woo and win the wench?”
Jeffers grinned back at him. “I reckon you know you got competition, huh?”
“You mean Jake von Liegnitz?” Mike’s face darkened. “I have the feeling he’s looking for something that doesn’t include a marriage certificate.”