on his part now to drop on one knee and put his arms around that
shivering, pride-broken form.

"Yorkey!" he mumbled huskily, "old man! . . . Yor--"

He choked a bit, and was silent.

Waveringly, a skinned-knuckled, but sinewy, shapely hand crept out and
gently ruffled Redmond's curly auburn hair. Vaguely he heard a voice
speaking to him. Could that tired, kind, whimsical voice belong to
Yorke? It said: "Reddy, my old son! . . . we're still in the ring,
anyway. . . . Seems--do what we would or could--we couldn't poke each
other out. . . ."

Came a long silence; then: "If ever a man was sorry for the rotten way
he's acted, it's surely me right now. . . . Got d----d good cause to be
p'raps. . . . I handed it to you about the sponge . . . egad! I
well-nigh came chucking it up myself--later. My colonial oath! but
you're the cleverest, gamest, hardest-hitting young proposition I've ever
ruffled it out with! . . . Where'd you pick it up? Who's handled you?"

George slowly rose to his feet. "Man named Scholes--down East" he
answered. He eyed Yorke's face ruefully and, incidentally felt his own,
"I used to do a bit with the gloves when I was at McGill. Talking about
sponges!--I only wish we had one now to chuck up--in tangible form."

He abstracted the other's handkerchief and, rolling it with his own into
a pad dabbed it in the snow. Yorke winced. "Hold still, old thing!"
said Redmond, "we'll have to clean off a bit ere we hit the giddy trail
again."