Apparently Perkins held the same belief. Stepping aside, he abruptly sat down on the end of the bench, facing the fountain and not four feet from it. His head drooped a little forward; his hands dropped between his knees; one foot—but Cluff, the athlete, was the only one to note this—edged backward and turned to secure a firm hold on the pavement. Carroll stepped over in front of him and stood nonplused. He half drew his hand back, then let it fall.
“I can’t hit a man sitting down,” he muttered distressfully.
Perkins’s set face relaxed.
“Running true to tradition,” he observed, pleasantly enough. “I didn’t think you would. See here, Mr. Carroll, I’m sorry that I laughed at your name. In fact, I didn’t really laugh at your name at all. It was at something quite different which came into my mind at that moment.”
“Your apology is accepted so far,” returned the other stiffly. “But that doesn’t settle the other account between us, when we meet again. Or do you choose to threaten me with jail for that, also?”
“No. It’s easier to keep out of your way.”
“Good Lord!” cried the Southerner in disgust. “Are you afraid of everything?”
“Why, no!” Perkins rose, smiling at him with perfect equanimity. “As a matter of fact, if you’re interested to know, I wasn’t particularly afraid of Von Plaanden, and, if I may say so without offense, I’m not particularly afraid of you.”
Carroll studied him intently.
“By Jove, I believe you aren’t! I give it up!” he cried desperately. “You’re crazy, I reckon—or else I am.” And he took himself off without the formality of a farewell to the others.