CHAPTER TEN
     
          The tattered man stood musing.
          "Well, he was regular jim-dandy for nerve, wasn't he?" said he
     finally in a little awe-struck voice. "A regular jim-dandy." He
     thoughtfully poked one of the docile hands with his foot. "l wonder
     where he got his strength from? I never seen a man do like that
     before. It was a funny thing. Well, he was a regular jim-dandy."
          The youth desired to screech out his grief. He was stabbed,
     but his tongue lay dead in the tomb of his mouth. He threw himself
     again upon the ground and began to brood.
          The tattered man stood musing.
          "Look-a-here, partner," he said, after a time. He regarded the
     corpse as he spoke. "He's up and gone, ain't he, and we might as
     well begin to look out for old number one. This here thing is all
     over. He's up and gone, ain't he? And he's all right here. Nobody
     won't bother him. And I must say I ain't enjoying any great health
     myself these days."
          The youth, awakened by the tattered soldier's tone, looked
     quickly up. He saw that he was swinging uncertainly on his legs and
     that his face had turned to a shade of blue.
          "Good Lord!" he cried, "you ain't going to---not you, too."
          The tattered man waved his hand. "Nary die," he said. "All I
     want is some pea soup and a good bed. Some pea soup," he repeated
     dreamfully.
          The youth arose from the ground. "I wonder where he came from.
     I left him over there." He pointed. "And now I find him here. And
     he was coming from over there, too." He indicated a new direction.
     They both turned toward the body as if to ask it a question.
          "Well," at length spoke the tattered man, "there ain't no use
     in our staying here and trying to ask him anything."
          The youth nodded an assent wearily. They both turned to gaze
     for a moment at the corpse.
          The youth murmured something.
          "Well, he was a jim-dandy, wasn't he?" said the tattered man
     as if in response.
          They turned their backs upon it and started away. For a time
     they stole softly, treading with their toes. It remained laughing
     there in the grass.
          "I'm commencing to feel pretty bad," said the tattered man
     suddenly breaking one of his little silences. "I'm commencing to
     feel pretty damned bad."
          The youth groaned. "O Lord!" He wondered if he was to be the
     tortured witness of another grim encounter.
          But his companion waved his hand reassuringly. "Oh, I'm not
     going to die yet! There's too much depending on me for me to die
     yet. No, sir! Nary die; I can't! You ought to see the swad of 
     children I've got, and all like that."
          The youth glancing at his companion could see by the shadow of
     a smile that he was making some kind of fun.
          As they plodded on the tattered soldier continued to talk.
     "Besides, if I died, I wouldn't die the way that fellow did. That
     was the funniest thing. I'd just flop down, I would. I never seen
     a fellow die the way that fellow did.
          "You know Tom Jamison, he lives next door to me up home. He's
     a nice fellow, he is, and we was always good friends. Smart, too.
     Smart as a steel trap. Well, when we was a-fighting this afternoon,
     all of a sudden he begin to rip up and cuss and bellow at me.
     `You're shot, you blamed infernal!'---he swear horrible---he say to
     me. I put up my hand to my head and when I looked at my fingers, I
     seen, sure enough, I was shot. I give a holler and begin to run,
     but before I could get away another one hit me in the arm and whirl
     me clean around. I got scared when they was all a-shooting behind
     me and I run to beat all, but I catch it pretty bad. I've an idea
     I'd a-been fighting yet, if it wasn't for Tom Jamison."
          Then he made a calm announcement: "There's two of them---
     little ones---but they're beginning to have fun with me now. I
     don't believe I can walk much further."
          They went slowly on in silence. "You look pretty peaked
     yourself," said the tattered man at last. "l bet you've got a worse
     one than you think. You'd better take care of your hurt. It don't
     do to let such things go. It might be inside mostly, and them plays
     thunder. Where is it located?" But he continued his harangue
     without waiting for a reply. "I seen a fellow get hit plum in the
     head when my regiment was a-standing at ease once. And everybody
     yelled out to him: Hurt, John? Are you hurt much? `No,' says he. He
     looked kind of surprised, and he went on telling them how he felt.
     He said he didn't feel nothing. But, by dad, the first thing that
     fellow knowed he was dead. Yes, he was dead---stone dead. So, you
     want to watch out. You might have some queer kind of hurt yourself.
     You can't never tell. Where is yours 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 want to bother anybody," said the
     other. There was a little accent of despair in his voice as he
     replied, "Lord knows I've got enough of my own to 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. "Goodby," he said.
          The tattered man looked at him in gaping amazement. "Why---
     why, partner, where you going?" 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 you going?"
          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 you, you pig-headed devil. You want to go tromping
     off with a bad hurt. It ain't right---now---Tom Jamison---it ain't.
     You want to leave me take care of you, Tom Jamison. It ain't right-
     --it ain't---for you to go---tromping 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.
          He now thought that he wished he was dead. He believed that he
     envied those men whose bodies lay strewn over the grass of the
     fields and on the fallen leaves of the forest.
          The simple questions of the tattered man had been knife
     thrusts to him. They asserted a society that probes pitilessly at
     secrets until all is apparent. His late companion's chance
     persistency made him feel that he could not keep his crime
     concealed in his bosom. It was sure to be brought plain by one of
     those arrows which cloud the air and are constantly pricking,
     discovering, proclaiming those things which are willed to be
     forever hidden. He admitted that he could not defend himself
     against this agency. It was not within the power of vigilance.