Two minutes, perhaps, of silence, while from sheer force of habit he
rolled a cigarette he did not want.
Then Jack moved his head on the pillow so that he could look at Dade.
"I wish you wouldn't take my affairs so to heart," he said, apathy
fighting his understanding and his appreciation of a friend like this.
"I'd he a whole lot easier in my mind if I didn't know you were worried
half to death. And it's no good worrying, Dade. Some' things just come
at a fellow, head down; and they have to be met, if we expect to look
anybody in the face again." He shifted his head impatiently and stared
again at the ceiling. "I'd rather be dead than a coward," he said,
speaking low.
"Oh, I know. But--men are just beasts with clothes on their backs. Did
you hear them yelling, awhile ago? That was when beasts just as human as
they are under the skin, fought and killed each other, so those yelling
maniacs could get a thrill or two." He searched his pockets for a match,
found one and drew it glumly along the sole of his high-heeled, calfskin
boot with its embroidered top of yellow silk on red morocco.
"That's what makes me sick to the stomach," he went on. "They'll sit and
watch you two, and they'll gloat over the spectacle--"
A brisk tattoo of knuckles on the oaken door stopped him. Bill came in,
grinning with satisfaction over something.
"Say, I've been getting bets laid down five and six to one, on the
greaser," he exulted.
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