At the first blow, they both slipped and fell heavily to the sidewalk, half rising then, and again pulling each other to the ground. They found a better foothold in the thin snow to the side of the walk and rushed at each other, both swinging wildly and pressing out the snow into a pasty mud underfoot.
The street was deserted, and except for their short tired gasps and the padded sound as one or the other slipped down into the slushy mud, they fought in silence, clearly defined to each other by the full moonlight as well as by the amber glow that shone out of the open door. Several times they both slipped down together, and then for a while the conflict threshed about wildly on the lawn.
For ten, fifteen, twenty minutes they fought there senselessly in the moonlight. They had both taken off coats and vests at some silently agreed upon interval and now their shirts dripped from their backs in wet pulpy shreds. Both were torn and bleeding and so exhausted that they could stand only when by their position they mutually supported each other—the impact, the mere effort of a blow, would send them both to their hands and knees.
But it was not weariness that ended the business, and the very meaninglessness of the fight was a reason for not stopping. They stopped because once when they were straining at each other on the ground, they heard a man’s footsteps coming along the sidewalk. They had rolled somehow into the shadow, and when they heard these footsteps they stopped fighting, stopped moving, stopped breathing, lay huddled together like two boys playing Indian until the footsteps had passed. Then, staggering to their feet, they looked at each other like two drunken men.
“I’ll be damned if I’m going on with this thing any more,” cried Markey thickly.
“I’m not going on any more either,” said John Andros. “I’ve had enough of this thing.”
Again they looked at each other, sulkily this time, as if each suspected the other of urging him to a renewal of the fight. Markey spat out a mouthful of blood from a cut lip; then he cursed softly, and picking up his coat and vest, shook off the snow from them in a surprised way, as if their comparative dampness was his only worry in the world.
“Want to come in and wash up?” he asked suddenly.
“No, thanks,” said John. “I ought to be going home—my wife’ll be worried.”
He too picked up his coat and vest and then his overcoat and hat. Soaking wet and dripping with perspiration, it seemed absurd that less than half an hour ago he had been wearing all these clothes.
“Well—good night,” he said hesitantly.
Suddenly they both walked toward each other and shook hands. It was no perfunctory handshake: John Andros’s arm went around Markey’s shoulder, and he patted him softly on the back for a little while.
“No harm done,” he said brokenly.
“No—you?”
“No, no harm done.”
“Well,” said John Andros after a minute, “I guess I’ll say good night.”
“Good night.”
Limping slightly and with his clothes over his arm, John Andros turned away. The moonlight was still bright as he left the dark patch of trampled ground and walked over the intervening lawn. Down at the station, half a mile away, he could hear the rumble of the seven o’clock train.
“But you must have been crazy,” cried Edith brokenly. “I thought you were going to fix it all up there and shake hands. That’s why I went away.”
“Did you want us to fix it up?”
“Of course not, I never want to see them again. But I thought of course that was what you were going to do.” She was touching the bruises on his neck and back with iodine as he sat placidly in a hot bath. “I’m going to get the doctor,” she said insistently. “You may be hurt internally.”
He shook his head. “Not a chance,” he answered. “I don’t want this to get all over town.”
“I don’t understand yet how it all happened.”
“Neither do I.” He smiled grimly. “I guess these baby parties are pretty rough affairs.”
“Well, one thing—” suggested Edith hopefully, “I’m certainly glad we have beefsteak in the house for tomorrow’s dinner.”
“Why?”
“For your eye, of course. Do you know I came within an ace of ordering veal? Wasn’t that the luckiest thing?”
Half an hour later, dressed except that his neck would accommodate no collar, John moved his limbs experimentally before the glass. “I believe I’ll get myself in better shape,” he said thoughtfully. “I must be getting old.”
“You mean so that next time you can beat him?”
“I did beat him,” he announced. “At least, I beat him as much as he beat me. And there isn’t going to be any next time. Don’t you go calling people common any more. If you get in any trouble, you just take your coat and go home. Understand?”
“Yes, dear,” she said meekly. “I was very foolish and now I understand.”
Out in the hall, he paused abruptly by the baby’s door.
“Is she asleep?”
“Sound asleep. But you can go in and peek at her—just to say good night.”
They tiptoed in and bent together over the bed. Little Ede, her cheeks flushed with health, her pink hands clasped tight together, was sleeping soundly in the cool, dark room. John reached over the railing of the bed and passed his hand lightly over the silken hair.
“She’s asleep,” he murmured in a puzzled way.
“Naturally, after such an afternoon.”
“Miz Andros,” the colored maid’s stage whisper floated in from the hall, “Mr. and Miz Markey downstairs an’ want to see you. Mr. Markey he’s all cut up in pieces, mam’n. His face look like a roast beef. An’
