On a Submarine Chaser
177
“Right where it came from,”' I put it straight back to him.
If it hadn’t been for my game arm I guess Bill and I would have settled the mooted question as to where my chunk of mud came from by referring it to the court of last resort, by which I mean the manly art of hit-’em-again, gob.
“Put up your dukes,” commanded Bill at the same time striking an attitude of a gas-house slugger.
Now to get my right hand up I had to lift it with my left and when Bill saw this he yelled, “time, you win!”
Then his eyes softened, his voice lost its harshness and he became sympathetic. He wanted to know how it happened and all about it. And then we got the matter of the chunk of mud straightened out to Bill’s satisfaction. From that time on Bill and I were pals and we used to swap stories. He had been in every corner on the face of the earth except South America and his stock of experiences was a large one. To keep even with him I had to manufacture tales out of raw material as I went along and I often thought he did the same
