“There goes those two cell mates,” said somebody. Holding and punching, kneeing and butting, the two were pushed out of the door.
“Let ’em fight on the sidewalk,” the wide-shouldered young man said. “Those bastards fight three’ or four times a night.”
“They’re a couple of punchies,” another Vet said. “Red could fight once but he’s got the old rale.”
“They’ve both got it.”
“Red got it fighting a fellow in the ring,” a short chunky Vet said. “This fellow had the old rale and he was all broke out on the shoulders and back. Every time they’d go into a clinch he’d rub his shoulder under Red’s nose or across his puss.”
“Oh, nuts. What did he put his face there for?”
“That was the way Red carried his head when he was in close. Down, like this. And this fellow was just roughing him.”
“Oh, nuts. That story is all bull. Nobody ever got the old rale from anybody in a fight.”
“That’s what you think. Listen, Red was as clean a living kid as you ever saw. I knew him. He was in my outfit. He was a good little fighter, too. I mean good. He was married, too, to a nice girl. I mean nice. And this Benny Sampson gave him that old rale just as sure as I’m standing here.”
“Then sit down,” said another Vet. “How did Poochy get it?”
“He got it in Shanghai.” “Where did you get yours?” “I ain’t got it.”
“Where did Suds get it?”
“Off a girl in Brest, coming home.”
“That’s all you guys ever talk about. The old rale. What difference does the old rale make?”
“None, the way we are now,” one Vet said. “You’re just as happy with it.”
“Poochy’s happier. He don’t know where he is.”
“What’s the old rale?” Professor MacWalsey asked the man next to him at the bar. The man told him.
“I wonder what the derivation is,” Professor MacWalsey said.
“I don’t know,” said the man. “I’ve always heard it called the old rale since my first enlistment. Some call it ral. But usually they call it the old rale.”
“I’d like to know,” said Professor MacWalsey.
“Most of those terms are old English words.”
“Why do they call it the old rale?” the Vet next to Professor MacWalsey asked another.
“I don’t know.”
Nobody seemed to know but all enjoyed the atmosphere of serious philological discussion.
Richard Gordon was next to Professor MacWalsey at the bar now. When Red and Poochy had started fighting he had been pushed down there and he had not resisted the move.
“Hello,” Professor MacWalsey said to him. “Do you want a drink?”
“Not with you,” said Richard Gordon.
“I suppose you’re right,” said Professor MacWalsey. “Did you ever see anything like this?”
“No,” said Richard Gordon.
“It’s very strange,” said Professor MacWalsey. “They’re amazing. I always come here nights.”
“Don’t you ever get in trouble?”
“No. Why should I?”
“Drunken fights.”
“I never seem to have any trouble.”
“A couple of friends of mine wanted to beat you up a couple of minutes ago.”
“Yes.”
“I wish I would have let them.”
“I don’t think it would make much difference,” said Professor MacWalsey in the odd way of speaking he had. “If I annoy you by being here I can go.”
“No,” said Richard Gordon. “I sort of like to be near you.”
“Yes,” said Professor MacWalsey.
“Have you ever been married?” asked Richard Gordon.
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“My wife died during the influenza epidemic in 1918.”
“Why do you want to marry again now?”
“I think I’d be better at it now. I think perhaps I’d be a better husband now.”
“So you picked my wife.”
“Yes,” said Professor MacWalsey.
“Damn you,” said Richard Gordon, and hit him in the face.
Someone grabbed his arm. He jerked it loose and someone hit him crashingly behind the ear. He could see Professor MacWalsey, before him, still at the bar, his face red, blinking his eyes. He was reaching for another beer to replace the one Gordon had spilled, and Richard Gordon drew back his arm to hit him again. As he did so, something exploded again behind his ear and all the lights flared up, wheeled round, and then went out.
Then he was standing in the doorway of Freddy’s place. His head was ringing, and the crowded room was unsteady and wheeling slightly, and he felt sick to his stomach. He could see the crowd looking at him. The big-shouldered young man was standing by him. “Listen,” he was saying, “you don’t want to start any trouble in here. There’s enough fights in here with those rummies.”
“Who hit me?” asked Richard Gordon.
“I hit you,” said the wide young man. “That fellow’s a regular customer here. You want to take it easy. You don’t want to go to fight in here.”
Standing unsteadily Richard Gordon saw Professor MacWalsey coming toward him away from the crowd at the bar. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t want anybody to slug you. I don’t blame you for feeling the way you do.”