“I came to make friends!” was the answer.
“——to make friends?” I echoed. “Do you think a man makes friends through jibes and insults?”
By this time both of us had somewhat recovered our breath. In the most serious manner imaginable he threw his hands apart and looked from the armorer to me.
“It’s an unfortunate habit I have,” he exclaimed. “It lies in my disposition to dig to the bottom of things—to prod people till they squirm.”
“Some day,” said I by way of admonishment, “you’ll prod the wrong person. In such dangerous times as these, when everyone is the other’s enemy, it’ll likely cost you your life.”
He paid no more heed to me than if I had not spoken. As though he was aroused by a sudden curiosity, he half closed his eyes and made a mental measurement of me as I have often seen a buyer measure a horse. He took a step or two to the rear. He circled around me. I saw his lips move as though he was noting this or that to himself. Then, with the same ease and confidence as though we had been life-long friends, he came up to me and laid his fingers on the upper part of my arm.
“All brawn,” he said. “Tough. Great endurance, but a trifle slow in action.” And with a smile of satisfaction he clapped me heartily on the shoulder. “Can you fight?” he demanded.
I wrinkled my brows.
“I held my own with you, didn’t I?” I asked.
“Na. Na. Lad. Not that,” he said. “That was no fight. It was only a little rolling in the dirt. What I mean is this: Are you good with a sword, an ax or a dagger?”