“How do you like it?”
“Don’t need to answer, do I? If my brain was as sound as your lab we’d have the war won in a week!”
Mr. Corinth chuckled soundlessly. He sat down on another stool and squinted for some time at his employee. “Who hit you?”
“My brother.” The response was complacent. “Uh-huh. Biff’s got a bad temper.
War, eh?”
“Domestic relations,” Jimmie answered, smiling ruefully, “seem to hinge on international relations.”
“Out here in the West they do, anyhow. They ought to draft that puppy pretty soon.”
“They did.”
Mr. Corinth pulled on his white mustache, apparently to hide a smile. “SO he hit you. Did you see it coming?”
Jimmie had been studying his equations again. He looked up, not with irritation, but in a way that showed his preoccupation. “No.”