Ahead there was a bridge. Nick crossed it, his boots ringing hollow on the iron. Down below the water showed black between the slits of ties. Nick kicked a loose spike and it dropped into the water. Beyond the bridge were hills. It was high and dark on both sides of the track. Up the track Nick saw a fire.
He came up the track toward the fire carefully. It was off to one side of the track, below the railway embankment. He had only seen the light from it. The track came out through a cut and where the fire was burning the country opened out and fell away into woods. Nick dropped carefully down the embankment and cut into the woods to come up to the fire through the trees.
It was a beechwood forest and the fallen beechnut burrs were under his shoes as he walked between the trees. The fire was bright now, just at the edge of the trees. There was a man sitting by it. Nick waited behind the tree and watched. The man looked to be alone. He was sitting there with his head in his hands looking at the fire. Nick stepped out and walked into the firelight.
The man sat there looking into the fire. When Nick stopped quite close to him he did not move.
‘Hello!’ Nick said.
The man looked up.
‘Where did you get the shiner?’ he said.
‘A brakeman busted me.’
‘Off the through freight?’
‘Yes.’
‘I saw the bastard,’ the man said. ‘He went through here ‘bout an hour and a half ago. He was walking along the top of the cars slapping his arms and singing.’
‘The bastard!’
‘It must have made him feel good to bust you,’ the man said seriously.
‘I’ll bust him.’
‘Get him with a rock some time when he’s going through,’ the man advised.
‘I’ll get him.’
‘You’re a tough one, aren’t you?’
‘No,’ Nick answered.
‘All you kids are tough.’
‘You got to be tough,’ Nick said.
‘That’s what I said.’
The man looked at Nick and smiled. In the firelight Nick saw that his face was misshapen. His nose was sunken, his eyes were slits, he had queer shaped lips. Nick did not perceive all this at once, he only saw the man’s face was queerly formed and mutilated. It was like putty in colour. Dead looking in the firelight.
‘Don’t you like my pan?’ the man asked.
Nick was embarrassed.
‘Sure,’ he said.
‘Look here!’ the man took off his cap.
He had only one ear. It was thickened and tight against the side of his head. Where the other ear should have been there was a stump.
‘Ever see one like that?’
‘No,’ said Nick. It made him a little sick.
‘I could take it,’ the man said. ‘Don’t you think I could take it, kid?’
‘You bet!’
‘They all bust their hands on me,’ the little man said. ‘They couldn’t hurt me.’
He looked at Nick. ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Want to eat?’
‘Don’t bother,’ Nick said. ‘I’m going on to the town.’
‘Listen!’ the man said. ‘Call me Ad.’
‘Sure!’
‘Listen,’ the little man said. ‘I’m not quite right.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’m crazy.’
He put on his cap. Nick felt like laughing.
‘You’re all right,’ he said.
‘No, I’m not. I’m crazy. Listen, you ever been crazy?’
‘No,’ Nick said. ‘How does it get you?’
‘I don’t know,’ Ad said. ‘When you got it you don’t know about it. You know me, don’t you?’
‘No.’
‘I’m Ad Francis.’
‘Honest to God?’
‘Don’t you believe it?’
‘Yes.’
Nick knew it must be true.
‘You know how I beat them?’
‘No,’ Nick said.
‘My heart’s slow. It only beats forty a minute. Feel it.’
Nick hesitated.
‘Come on,’ the man took hold of his hand. ‘Take hold of my wrist. Put your fingers there.’
The little man’s wrist was thick and the muscles bulged above the bone. Nick felt the slow pumping under his fingers.
‘Got a watch?’
‘No.’
‘Neither have I,’ Ad said. ‘It ain’t any good if you haven’t got a watch.’
Nick dropped his wrist.
‘Listen,’ Ad Francis said. ‘Take ahold again. You count and I’ll count up to sixty.’
Feeling the slow hard throb under his fingers Nick started to count. He heard the little man counting slowly, one, two, three, four, five, and on—aloud.
‘Sixty,’ Ad finished. ‘That’s a minute. What did you make it?’
‘Forty,’ Nick said.
‘That’s right,’ Ad said happily. ‘She never speeds up.’
A man dropped down the railroad embankment and came across the clearing to the fire.
‘Hello, Bugs!’ Ad said.
‘Hello!’ Bugs answered. It was a Negro’s voice. Nick knew from the way he walked that he was a Negro. He stood with his back to them, bending over the fire. He straightened up.
‘This is my pal Bugs,’ Ad said. ‘He’s crazy, too.’
‘Glad to meet you,’ Bugs said. ‘Where you say you’re from?’
‘Chicago,’ Nick said.
‘That’s a fine town,’ the Negro said. ‘I didn’t catch your name.’
‘Adams. Nick Adams.’
‘He says he’s never been crazy, Bugs,’ Ad said.
‘He’s got a lot coming to him,’ the Negro said. He was unwrapping a package by the fire.
‘When are we going to eat, Bugs?’ the prize-fighter asked.
‘Right away.’
‘Are you hungry, Nick?’
‘Hungry as hell.’
‘Hear that, Bugs?’
‘I hear most of what goes on.’
‘That ain’t what I asked you.’
‘Yes. I heard what the gentleman said.’
Into a skillet he was laying slices of ham. As the skillet grew hot the grease sputtered and Bugs, crouching on long nigger legs over the fire, turned the ham and broke eggs into the skillet, tipping it from side to side to baste the eggs with the hot fat.
‘Will you cut some bread out of that bag, Mister Adams?’ Bugs turned from the fire.
‘Sure.’
Nick reached in the bag and brought out a loaf of bread. He cut six slices. Ad watched him and leaned forward.
‘Let me take your knife, Nick,’ he said.
‘No, you don’t,’ the Negro said. ‘Hang on to your knife, Mister Adams.’
The prize-fighter sat back.
‘Will you bring me the bread, Mister Adams?’ Bugs asked. Nick brought it over.
‘Do you like to dip your bread in the ham fat?’ the Negro asked.
‘You bet!’
‘Perhaps we’d better wait until later. It’s better at the finish of the meal. Here.’
The Negro picked up a slice of ham and laid it on one of the pieces of bread, then slid an egg on top of it.
‘Just close that sandwich, will you, please, and give it to Mister Francis.’
Ad took the sandwich and started eating.
‘Watch out how that egg runs,’ the Negro warned. ‘This is for you, Mister Adams. The remainder for myself.’
Nick bit into the sandwich. The Negro was sitting opposite him beside Ad. The hot fried ham and eggs tasted wonderful.
‘Mister Adams is right hungry,’ the Negro said. The little man whom Nick knew by name as a former champion fighter was silent. He had said nothing since the Negro had spoken about the knife.
‘May I offer you a slice of bread dipped right in the hot ham fat?’ Bugs said.
‘Thanks a lot.’
The little white man looked at Nick.
‘Will you have some, Mister Adolph Francis?’ Bugs offered from the skillet.
Ad did not answer. He was looking at Nick.
‘Mister Francis?’ came the nigger’s soft voice.
Ad did not answer. He was looking at Nick.
‘I spoke to you, Mister Francis,’ the nigger said softly.
Ad kept on looking at Nick. He had his cap down over his eyes. Nick felt nervous.
‘How the hell do you get that way?’ came out from under the cap sharply at Nick.
‘Who the hell do you think you are? You’re a snotty bastard. You come in here where nobody asks you and eat a man’s food and when he asks to borrow a knife you get snotty.’
He glared at Nick, his face was white and his eyes almost out of sight under his cap.
‘You’re a hot sketch. Who the hell asked you to butt in here?’
‘Nobody.’
‘You’re damn right nobody did. Nobody asked you to stay either. You come in here and act snotty about my face and smoke my cigars and drink my liquor and then talk snotty. Where the hell do you think you get off?’
Nick said nothing. Ad stood up.
‘I’ll tell you, you yellow-livered Chicago bastard. You’re going to get your can knocked off. Do you get that?’
Nick stepped back. The little man came toward him slowly, stepping flat-footed forward, his left foot stepping forward, his right dragging up to it.
‘Hit me,’ he moved his head. ‘Try and hit me.’
‘I don’t want to hit you.’
‘You won’t get out of it that way. You’re going to take a beating, see? Come on and lead at me.’
‘Cut it out,’ Nick said.
‘All right, then, you bastard.’
The little man looked down at Nick’s feet. As he looked down the Negro, who had followed behind him as he moved away from the fire, set himself and tapped him across the base of the skull. He fell forward and Bugs dropped the cloth-wrapped blackjack on the grass. The little man lay there, his face in the grass. The Negro picked him up, his head hanging, and carried him to the fire. His face looked bad, the eyes open. Bugs laid him down gently.
‘Will you bring me the water in the bucket, Mister Adams?’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I hit him just a little hard.’
The Negro splashed water with his hand on
