He was gently mopping young Briskow's face when the latter revived. Buddy's eyes were wild, he did not recognize this unpleasant stranger until a familiar voice issued from the shapeless lips.
"You'll be all right in a few minutes, my lad."
Briskow lifted his head; he tried to rise, but fell back limply, for as yet his body refused to obey his will.
"You—licked me," he declared, faintly. "Licked me good, didn't you?"
"Buddy! Oh, Buddy—" It was a yearning cry; Gray's streaked, swollen features were grotesquely contorted. "You won't be mad with me, will you?"
"Want to fight any more?"
The victor groaned. "My God, no! You nearly killed me."
This time Buddy managed to gain his feet. "Then I reckon I'll—go to bed. I feel purty rotten."
Gray laughed aloud, in his deep relief. "Righto! And after I've phoned for a doctor, if you don't mind, I'll crawl in with you."