`Look here, Jack,' I said, `I've two minds to punch your head.'

`And she asked me if it was true that you were wild,' said Jack,
`and I said you was, a bit. She said it seemed a pity.
She asked me if it was true that you drank, and I drew a long face and said
that I was sorry to say it was true. She asked me if you had any friends,
and I said none that I knew of, except me. I said that you'd lost
all your friends; they stuck to you as long as they could,
but they had to give you best, one after the other.'

`What next?'

`She asked me if you were delicate, and I said no, you were as tough
as fencing-wire. She said you looked rather pale and thin,
and asked me if you'd had an illness lately. And I said no --
it was all on account of the wild, dissipated life you'd led.
She said it was a pity you hadn't a mother or a sister to look after you --
it was a pity that something couldn't be done for you, and I said it was,
but I was afraid that nothing could be done. I told her that I was doing
all I could to keep you straight.'

I knew enough of Jack to know that most of this was true.
And so she only pitied me after all. I felt as if I'd been courting her
for six months and she'd thrown me over -- but I didn't know anything
about women yet.

`Did you tell her I was in jail?' I growled.

`No, by Gum! I forgot that. But never mind I'll fix that up all right.