Natica laughed. Her eyes were on the door. “Remember, we’ve only been foolish,” repeated the Hartopp. “Only foolish, that’s all.” She went to Natica and shook her arm roughly; there were feet upon the stairs. “You silly,” she snapped. “You ought to be glad you’re married to a gentleman. He’s different from all the others. I can tell you that, and I know. And I tell you that Jim’s been drinking. Jack will——”
Natica’s pose stiffened, but she did not look around. “Yes, Jack will what?” she said, coldly.
The Hartopp flushed. “He’ll be hurt,” she finished, weakly. Then, as the two from upstairs entered, she whispered: “He’ll be hurt worse than you are now.”
The “Boiler-plate” looked very foolish in an old Yale rowing shirt, with the “Y” stretched taut across his ponderous chest. He had a pair of arms like a blacksmith. Jack Drayton had taken off his coat and was in his shirt sleeves. He never looked at Natica, nor at the Hartopp; but he tossed me a stopwatch and told me to keep time.
“We’ll box five rounds, Percy,” he said.
Natica clapped her hands. “What fun!” she cried. “Jack, you’re boxing against my champion.”
The “Boiler-plate,” who had been regarding the work at hand with much gravity, again allowed his countenance to be relaxed by the old, foolish grin. “Oh, I say,” he interposed. “That’s all right, but so long as Maisie is in the room I’m fighting for her—she’s my wife, you know.”
The Hartopp went to Natica with a softened gleam in her eyes; “I saw a telephone in the hall,” she said. “I’m going out to call a cab.” I heard her at the lever as they began to spar.
I don’t believe I could get a job at timekeeping in a real mill. My rounds must have been wonderfully and fearfully made. For I forgot all about the stop-watch now and then, while I learned the truth of the Hartopp’s caution that “Boiler-plate” grew rough after he’d been drinking a bit.
I knew that Jack had been a pretty fair boxer at the university, but, after I had called time for the first round, the thing was to all intents and purposes a genuine fight, and he was all in several times over. The “Boiler-plate’s” fists made a noise like a woodchopper. Natica stood watching it with a queer, queer smile. But I saw—and I saw it with a sinking at the heart, for I realized that I’d cherished the guilty hope that things were not really going to be straightened out—that with every mark of the “Boiler-plate’s” glove, her husband was coming back into his own.