“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 neednt 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.”