His body half-lifted from the
blankets, and quivered and shrank spasmodically, as though drawing away
from a bed of nettles.
"Roll'm over!" ordered Bettles. "He's crampin'."
And thereat, with pitiless good-will, he was pitched upon and rolled and
thumped and pounded by half-a-dozen willing comrades.
"Damn the trail," he muttered softly, as he threw off the robes and sat
up. "I've run across country, played quarter three seasons hand-running,
and hardened myself in all manner of ways; and then I pilgrim it into
this God-forsaken land and find myself an effeminate Athenian without the
simplest rudiments of manhood!" He hunched up to the fire and rolled a
cigarette. "Oh, I'm not whining. I can take my medicine all right, all
right; but I'm just decently ashamed of myself, that's all. Here I am,
on top of a dirty thirty miles, as knocked up and stiff and sore as a
pink-tea degenerate after a five-mile walk on a country turn-pike. Bah!
It makes me sick! Got a match?" "Don't git the tantrums, youngster."
Bettles passed over the required fire-stick and waxed patriarchal. "Ye've
gotter 'low some for the breakin'-in.
Pages:
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141