“You’re brave.” “No,” she said. “But I would like to be.” “I’m not,” I said. “I know where I stand. I’ve been out long enough to know. I’m like a ball-player that bats two hundred and thirty and knows he’s no better.” “What is a ball-player that bats two hundred and thirty? It’s awfully impressive.” “It’s not. It means a mediocre hitter in baseball.” “But still a hitter,” she prodded me. “I guess we’re both conceited,” I said. “But you are brave.” “No. But I hope to be.” “We’re both brave,” I said. “And I’m very brave when I’ve had a drink.”
