“Small wonder. Most of 'em are crazy.”
He was unmistakably friendly. Ken kept wondering where he had seen him. Presently the man arose, and, with a wide smile on his face, reached over and grasped Ken's right arm.
“How's the whip?”
“What?” asked Ken.
“The wing—your arm, Kid, your arm.”
“Oh— Why, it's all right.”
“It's not sore—not after peggin' a bushel of potatoes on a cold day?”
Ken laughed and raised his arm up and down. “It's weak to-night, but not sore.”
“These boys with their India-rubber arms! It's youth, Kid, it's youth. Say, how old are you?”
“Sixteen.”