It mattered
very little to him which party conquered, as long as he carried
off the spoils. His conduct in the premises was quite as
unsatisfactory to Mike as it was to Paul. When Mike found
himself in danger of being overpowered, he appealed to his
companion for assistance, and was incensed to see him coolly
disregarding the appeal, and selfishly appropriating the booty.
"The mane thafe!" he exclaimed after the fight was over, and he
was compelled to retreat. "He let me be bate, and wouldn't lift
his finger to help me. I'd like to put a head on him, I would."
Just at that moment Mike felt quite as angry with his friend,
Jerry McGaverty, as with his late opponent.
"The shirt's mine, fair," he said to himself, "and I'll make
Jerry give it to me."
But Jerry had disappeared, and Mike didn't know where to look for
him. In fact, he had entered a dark alleyway, and, taking the
shirt from the paper in which it was wrapped, proceeded to
examine his prize.
The unusual size struck him.
"By the powers," he muttered, "it's big enough for me
great-grandfather and all his children. I wouldn't like to pay
for the cloth it tuck to make it. But I'll wear it, anyway.
Pages:
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104