Jimmie lowered his head a moment. The first fierce pain died away. The sparks stopped floating. He put his hand up to his cheek and rubbed hard. His palm was bloodied. He took out his handkerchief, dipped it in his tumbler, and pressed it against the cut bruise. “I didn’t see that one coming,” he said, finally. “You better always throw ’em without warning me. You’re a husky boy, Biff. But I’ve been training in the home guard for nearly two years. If you ever slug me again I’ll lay you cold. If you want to fight fair—come on outside. Do you?”
Biff said nothing.
Mrs. Bailey was weeping voluminously. Her husband was staring rabidly at his sons. Sarah sat still, shivering. The telephone rang. Westcott came in. He was astonished by the tableau. He showed it only slightly. “For you, Mrs. Bailey. It’s Mrs. Wilson.”
“I can’t possibly—” said Mrs. Bailey. Then she gulped. “Mrs. Wilson!” She rose.
While she was away no one said a word.
When she came back her face was pasty and her eyes were bleak. “The p-p-party tonight is off,” she said hollowly. “Off-because of Jimmie’s views. That’s the real truth.
Mrs. Wilson is telling people—except us, of course—that she’s been taken very ill, all of a sudden.” She sat down and burst into tears again. “Now, everything’s ruined.”
CHAPTER IV
JIMMIE WALKED to the paint works. His mother, emerging from her woebegone condition for a single, considerate moment, had offered a car for him to drive.
He had preferred to walk. It wasn’t much more than a mile to the plant; and Jimmie was used to walking. He hadn’t bothered to tell his mother that he was used to walking now.