Where'd he learn to box?"
"He's been going to Mike's every day, over in town," I said.
"He has?" Spoade said. "Did you know that when you hit him?"
"I dont know," I said. "I guess so.
Yes."
"Wet it again," Shreve said. "Want some fresh water?"
"This is all right," I said.
I dipped the cloth again and held it to my eye. "Wish I had something to clean my vest." Spoade was still watching me.
"Say," he said. "What did you hit him for?
What was it he said?"
"I dont know.
I dont know why I did."
"The first I knew was when you jumped up all of a sudden and said,
'Did you ever have a sister? did you?' and when he said No, you hit him.
I noticed you kept on looking at him, but you didn't seem to be paying any attention to what anybody was saying until you jumped up and asked him if he had any sisters."
"Ah, he was blowing off as usual," Shreve said, "about his women.
You know: like he does, before girls, so they dont know exactly what he's saying.
All his damn innuendo and lying and a lot of stuff that dont make sense even.
Telling us about some wench that he made a date with to meet at a dance hall in Atlantic City and stood her up and went to the hotel and went to bed and how he lay there being sorry for her waiting on the pier for him, without him there to give her what she wanted.
Talking about the body's beauty and the sorry ends thereof and how tough women have it, without anything else they can do except lie on their backs. Leda lurking in the bushes, whimpering and moaning for the swan, see.
The son of a bitch.
I'd hit him myself.
Only I'd grabbed up her damn hamper of wine and done it if it had been me."
"Oh," Spoade said, "the champion of dames. Bud, you excite not only admiration, but horror." He looked at me, cold and quizzical. "Good God," he said.
"I'm sorry I hit him," I said. "Do I look too bad to go back and get it over with?"
"Apologies, hell," Shreve said. "Let them go to hell.
We're going to town."
"He ought to go back so they'll know he fights like a gentleman," Spoade said.
"Gets licked like one, I mean."
"Like this?" Shreve said. "With his clothes all over blood?"
"Why, all right," Spoade said. "You know best."
"He cant go around in his undershirt," Shreve said. "He's not a senior yet. Come on, let's go to town."
"You needn't come," I said. "You go on back to the picnic."
"Hell with them," Shreve said. "Come on here."
"What'll I tell them?" Spoade said. "Tell them you and Quentin had a fight too?" "Tell them nothing," Shreve said. "Tell her her option expired at sunset.
Come on, Quentin.
I'll ask that woman where the nearest interurban--"
"No," I said. "I'm not going back to town."
Shreve stopped, looking at me.
Turning his glasses looked like small yellow moons.
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm not going back to town yet.
You go on back to the picnic.
Tell them I wouldn't come back because my clothes were spoiled."
"Look here," he said. "What are you up to?"
"Nothing.
I'm all right.
You and Spoade go on back.
I'll see you tomorrow." I went on across the yard, toward the road.
"Do you know where the station is?" Shreve said.