"Say—say you're sorry!" he gasped, still hitting away with might and main. "Say—say you're a beast!"
"I'm not," jerked out the other, "and I'm—not sorry. Let go my hair!"
"Say—say you're sorry—or I'll kill you!" panted Jimmy, still hitting wildly.
"Oh—oh—all right—I'm sorry. She isn't worth this," gasped the other. "Get off!"
"She is worth it—and you know it," cried Jimmy, setting to work again harder than ever. "Say it!"
And Charlie finally said it, as an easy way to end the business. Then they drew off from each other, the better to ascertain the damage. Charlie had a beautiful colour beginning to rise on one side of his forehead, and he mopped at his nose doubtfully, and seemed a little astonished at the state of his handkerchief. Jimmy had a fast darkening eye and a suspicious puffiness about the mouth.
"What are you going to say about it?" asked Jimmy. "I mean—you won't speak about her?"
"I suppose not," replied Charlie. "It doesn't matter much what we say; we had a row, and had it out."
"Very well," replied the other stiffly.
Moira flew home by another route—got to Old Paul before Jimmy could possibly arrive at the house. Breathlessly she blurted out something of the story, and it would appear from her narrative that Jimmy had been in the right, but that it must not be talked about. "Old Paul," she whispered, shaking him to a better understanding, "you know what I mean?"