"Back comes the guy at him--he was a great big son of a gun, weighing
thirty pounds more than dad--and him and dad mixes it right there in
the saloon till the barkeep and about fifty other fellers throws them
out, and they goes off to a vacant lot to finish the thing. And dad's
so worked up that he gives the other guy his till he hollers that
that's all he'll want. And then dad goes home and waits quite quiet and
happy and peaceful till they tell him I'm there."
Steve paused.
"Kirk," he said then, "how would you like a round or two with the small
gloves, just to get things off your mind for a spell and pass the time?
My dad said he found it eased him mighty good."
Kirk stared at him.
"Just a couple of rounds," urged Steve. "And you can go all out at
that. I shan't mind. Just try to think I'm some guy that's been picking
on you and let me have it. See what I mean?"
For the first time that day the faint ghost of a grin appeared on
Kirk's face.
"I wonder if you're right, Steve?"
"I know I'm right. And, say, don't think I don't need it, too. I ain't
known Miss Ruth all this time for nothing. You'll be doing me a
kindness if you knock my face in."
The small gloves occupied a place of honour to themselves in a lower
drawer. It was not often that Kirk used them in his friendly bouts with
Steve.
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