“Yeh know Tom Jamison, he lives next door t’ me up home. He’s a nice feller, he is, an’ we was allus good friends. Smart, too. Smart as a steel trap. Well, when we was a-fightin’ this atternoon, all-of-a- sudden he begin t’ rip up an’ cuss an’ beller at me. ‘Yer shot, yeh blamed infernal!’—he swear horrible—he ses t’ me. I put up m’ hand t’ m’ head an’ when I looked at m’ fingers, I seen, sure ’nough, I was shot. I give a holler an’ begin t’ run, but b’fore I could git away another one hit me in th’ arm an’ whirl’ me clean ’round. I got skeared when they was all a-shootin’ b’hind me an’ I run t’ beat all, but I cotch it pretty bad. I’ve an idee I’d a’ been fightin’ yit, if t’wasn’t fer Tom Jamison.”

Then he made a calm announcement: “There’s two of ’em—little ones—but they’re beginnin’ t’ have fun with me now. I don’t b’lieve I kin walk much furder.”

They went slowly on in silence. “Yeh look pretty peek-ed yerself,” said the tattered man at last. “I bet yeh’ve got a worser one than yeh think. Ye’d better take keer of yer hurt. It don’t do t’ let sech things go. It might be inside mostly, an’ them plays thunder. Where is it located?” But he continued his harangue without waiting for a reply. “I see a feller git hit plum in th’ head when my reg’ment was a-standin’ at ease onct. An’ everybody yelled out to ’im: Hurt, John? Are yeh hurt much? ‘No,’ ses he. He looked kinder surprised, an’ he went on tellin’ ’em how he felt. He sed he didn’t feel nothin’. But, by dad, th’ first thing that feller knowed he was dead. Yes, he was dead—stone dead. So, yeh wanta watch out. Yeh might have some queer kind ’a hurt yerself. Yeh can’t never tell. Where is your’n located?”

The youth had been wriggling since the introduction of this topic. He now gave a cry of exasperation and made a furious motion with his hand. “Oh, don’t bother me!” he said. He was enraged against the tattered man, and could have strangled him. His companions seemed ever to play intolerable parts. They were ever upraising the ghost of shame on the stick of their curiosity. He turned toward the tattered man as one at bay. “Now, don’t bother me,” he repeated with desperate menace.

“Well, Lord knows I don’t wanta bother anybody,” said the other. There was a little accent of despair in his voice as he replied, “Lord knows I’ve gota ’nough m’ own t’ tend to.”

The youth, who had been holding a bitter debate with himself and casting glances of hatred and contempt at the tattered man, here spoke in a hard voice. “Good-by,” he said.

The tattered man looked at him in gaping amazement. “Why—why, pardner, where yeh goin’?” he asked unsteadily. The youth looking at him, could see that he, too, like that other one, was beginning to act dumb and animal-like. His thoughts seemed to be floundering about in his head. “Now—now—look—a—here, you Tom Jamison—now—I won’t have this—this here won’t do. Where—where yeh goin’?”

The youth pointed vaguely. “Over there,” he replied.

“Well, now look—a—here—now,” said the tattered man, rambling on in idiot fashion. His head was hanging forward and his words were slurred. “This thing won’t do, now, Tom Jamison. It won’t do. I know yeh, yeh pig-headed devil. Yeh wanta go trompin’ off with a bad hurt. It ain’t right—now—Tom Jamison—it ain’t. Yeh wanta leave me take keer of yeh, Tom Jamison. It ain’t—right—it ain’t—fer yeh t’ go—trompin’ off—with a bad hurt—it ain’t—ain’t—ain’t right—it ain’t.”

In reply the youth climbed a fence and started away. He could hear the tattered man bleating plaintively.

Once he faced about angrily. “What?”

“Look—a—here, now, Tom Jamison—now—it ain’t—”

The youth went on. Turning at a distance he saw the tattered man wandering about helplessly in the field.