"Yes, he'll brag about that game all over the place," replied BILL,
rather despondently. For a moment or two he was silent, imagining the
triumph and pride of TOMMY. "I'd punch his head as soon as look at
him," he added.
"What on earth for? He thought he'd won by play."
"He can't play any more than a cow, but that's not it. I hate to see
anyone get so glorious about anything. Well, I don't know--it's kind
of natural. He'd have had a right to brag, if he had really won, and
he thought he did."
"Anyhow," I said, severely, "it's a mean trick to want to damage
anyone, just because he's pleased with himself when he's got a right
to be."
"Well, yes--I'll give you thirty."
"Can't play. I'm going to finish this novel, BILL."
"Is that one of the books you write about in the papers?"
"Yes."
"Are you going to praise it, or cut it up?"
"I'm going to give it such a--well, no, on second thoughts, I believe
I'm going to praise it." And I did.
* * * * *