"You're some little mixer yourself," he said.
"Thought I was, before I bumped into you. Say, gimme a hand up. I'm a bit groggy yet."
Kirby helped him to his feet. The immaculate shirt and trousers were spattered with blood, mostly Kirby's. The young dandy looked at himself, and a humorous quirk twitched at the corner of his mouth.
"Some scrap. Let's go into the lavatory and do some reconstruction work," he said.
Side by side at adjoining washbowls, perfectly amicably, they repaired as far as possible the damages of war. Not till they had put on again their coats did Kirby hark back to the purpose of the meeting.
"You haven't told me yet what I want to know."
Out of a damaged eye Jack looked at him evenly. "And that's only part of it. I'm not going to, either."
He had said the last word. Kirby could not begin all over again to thrash him. It was not reasonable. And if he did, he knew quite well he would get nothing out of the man. If he would not talk, he would not.
The bronco buster walked back to his hotel. A special-delivery letter was in his box. It was postmarked Golden. As he handed it to him the clerk looked him over curiously. It had been some time since he had seen a face so badly cut up and swollen.
"You ought to see the other fellow," Kirby told him with a lopsided grin as he ripped open the envelope.