the wire, with a flare lighting
him up and his bowels spilled
out into the wire, so when they
brought him in, alive, they had
to cut him loose. Shoot me,
Harry. For Christ sake shoot
me. They had had an argument
one time about our Lord never
sending you anything you
could not bear and some one's
theory had been that meant
that at a certain time the pain
passed you out automatically.
But he had always remembered
Williamson, that night. Nothing
passed out Williamson until he
gave him all his morphine
tablets that he had always
saved to use himself and then
they did not work right away.
Still this now, that he had, was
very easy; and if it was no
worse as it went on there was
nothing to worry about. Except
that he would rather be in
better company.
long, and do too late, you can't
expect to find the people still
there. The people all are gone.
The party's over and you are
with your hostess now.
I'm getting as bored with dying
as with everything else, he
thought.
"It's a bore," he said out loud.
"What is, my dear?"
"Anything you do too bloody
long."
He looked at her face between
him and the fire. She was
leaning back in the chair and
the firelight shone on her
pleasantly lined face and he
could see that she was sleepy.
He heard the hyena make a
noise just outside the range of
the fire.
"I've been writing," he said.
"But I got tired."
He thought a little about the
company that he would like to
have.
"Do you think you will be able
to sleep?"
No, he thought, when
everything you do, you do too
"Pretty sure. Why don't you
turn in?"
JOY FEELINGS | DECEMBER ISSUE
275