They pounded away at each other, Bickley frequently getting the best of it in the argument, and when at last Bastin rose to go, he generally made the same remark.

It was: "It really is sad, my dear Bickley, to find a man of your intellect so utterly wrongheaded and misguided.

I have convicted you of error at least half a dozen times, and not to confess it is mere pigheadedness.
Good night.

I am sure that Sarah will be sitting up for me." "Silly old idiot!" Bickley would say, shaking his fist after him.

"The only way to get him to see the truth would be to saw his head open and pour it in." Then we would both laugh.
Such were my two most intimate friends, although I admit it was rather like the equator cultivating close relationships with the north and south poles.