Often in the past he had fondly imagined himself nursing implacable, absolutely undying hatreds; brooding darkly over injuries received in fancy or reality, planning dire and utterly ruthless revenge, etc.  But, deep, deep down in his boyish soul he knew it to be only a dismal failure—­that he could not keep it up.  His was an impulsive, generous young heart—­equally quick to forgive an injury as to resent one.  Now in his pity and misery he could have cried—­to see his erstwhile enemy so hopelessly broken in body and spirit.

Therefore it did not occur to him that it was sheer sentimental absurdity on his part now to drop on one knee and put his arms around that shivering, pride-broken form.

“Yorkey!” he mumbled huskily, “old man! . . .  Yor—­”

He choked a bit, and was silent.

Waveringly, a skinned-knuckled, but sinewy, shapely hand crept out and gently ruffled Redmond’s curly auburn hair.  Vaguely he heard a voice speaking to him.  Could that tired, kind, whimsical voice belong to Yorke?  It said:  “Reddy, my old son! . . . we’re still in the ring, anyway. . . .  Seems—­do what we would or could—­we couldn’t poke each other out. . . .”

Came a long silence; then:  “If ever a man was sorry for the rotten way he’s acted, it’s surely me right now. . . .  Got d——­d good cause to be p’raps. . . .  I handed it to you about the sponge . . . egad!  I well-nigh came chucking it up myself—­later.  My colonial oath! but you’re the cleverest, gamest, hardest-hitting young proposition I’ve ever ruffled it out with! . . .  Where’d you pick it up?  Who’s handled you?”

George slowly rose to his feet.  “Man named Scholes—­down East” he answered.  He eyed Yorke’s face ruefully and, incidentally felt his own, “I used to do a bit with the gloves when I was at McGill.  Talking about sponges!—­I only wish we had one now to chuck up—­in tangible form.”

He abstracted the other’s handkerchief and, rolling it with his own into a pad dabbed it in the snow.  Yorke winced.  “Hold still, old thing!” said Redmond, “we’ll have to clean off a bit ere we hit the giddy trail again.”

For some minutes he gently manipulated the pad.  “There! you don’t look too bad now.  Have a go at me!”

Figuratively, they licked each other’s wounds awhile.  Yorke had grown very silent.  Chin in hands and rocking very slightly to and fro, all huddled up in his fur coat, he gazed unseeingly into the beyond.  His face was clouded with such hopeless, bitter, brooding misery that it worried Redmond.  He guessed it to be something far deeper than the memory of their recent conflict.  He strove to arouse the other.

“Talk about game cocks!” he began lightly.  “Ten years ago, say! you must have been a corker—­regular ’Terry McGovern’.”

“Eh?” Yorke’s far-away eyes stared at him vaguely.  “I was in India then.  Army light-weight champion in my day.  Slavin wasn’t joshing much at breakfast, by gum! . . .  Now we’re here! . . .  We’re a bright pair!” He made as though to cast snow upon his head, “Ichabod!  Ichabod! our glory has departed!”