the right of way. You'll ask us to get off the face of the earth next. I shan't oblige. See?"
I was shorter and I suppose a couple of years younger than he, but I had the improvised club in my pocket gripped ready, and I would have fought with him very cheerfully. But he fell a step backward as I came towards him.
"Socialist, I presume?" he said, alert and quiet and with the faintest note of badinage.
"One of many."
"We're all socialists nowadays," he remarked philosophically, "and I haven't the faintest intention of disputing your right of way."
"You'd better not," I said.
"No!"
"No."
He replaced his cigar, and there was a brief pause. "Catching a train?" he threw out.
It seemed absurd not to answer. "Yes," I said shortly.
He said it was a pleasant evening for a walk.
I hovered for a moment and there was my path before me, and he stood aside. There seemed nothing to do but go on. "Good night," said he, as that intention took effect.
I growled a surly good night.
I felt like a bombshell of swearing that must presently burst with some violence as I went on my silent way. He had so completely got the best in our encounter.
