He took a pair of the gloves
in his hands, and nodded toward the door.
"You mean...."
Father Roland was on his feet.
"If you are not tired. It would give us a better stomach for sleep."
Mukoki rolled from his blanket, a grin on his leathery face. He tied the
wrist laces for them, and followed them out into the moonlit night, his
face a copper-coloured gargoyle illuminated by that fixed and joyous
grin. David saw the look and wondered if it would change when he sent
the Little Missioner bowling over in the snow, which he was quite sure
to do, even if he was careful. He was a splendid boxer. In the days of
his practice he had struck a terrific blow for his weight. At the
Athletic Club he had been noted for a subtle strategy and a cleverness
of defence that were his own. But he felt that he had grown rusty during
the past year and a half. This thought was in his mind when he tapped
the Missioner on the end of his ruddy nose. They squared away in the
moonlight, eight inches deep in the snow, and there was a joyous and
eager light in Father Roland's eyes. The tap on his nose did not dim it.
His teeth gleamed, even as David's gloves went _plunk_, _plunk_, against
his nose again. Mukoki, still grinning like a carven thing, chuckled
audibly.
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