I see a feller git hit plum in th' head when my reg'ment was
a-standin' at ease onct. An' everybody yelled 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