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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 hand-shake: 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.”

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 to-morrow’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?”