12 The Tattered Man’s Question

CHAPTER 12 The Tattered Man's Question The tattered man stood, thinking. "Well, he was a sight, wasn't he?" he finally said in a surprised voice. "I wonder where he got his strength from. I've never seen a man run like that after he's been shot a few times. It was a funny thing." Henry wanted to cry out, but he couldn't make a sound. The tattered man stood and watched him. "Look here, partner," he said after a time. "Your friend's gone, isn't he? You might as well look out for number one. Nobody's

going to bother your friend anymore. And I must say, I'm not enjoying any great health myself these days." Henry looked up at him quickly. He saw that the tattered soldier was swaying uncertainly on his legs, and his face had turned a strange shade of blue. "Not you too," Henry cried. "You're not going—" The man waved his hand. "Nah, all I want is some pea soup and a good bed," he said. They started walking back to the road. For a time they moved quietly. Finally the tattered man said, "You know, partner, I'm starting to feel pretty bad." Henry groaned. He wondered if he was going to see another grim display. But his new friend reassured him. "Oh, I'm not going yet," he said. "I've got too much to take care of. You should see

how many children I've got." Henry could see the shadow of a smile on the tattered man's face. He had been making a joke. They walked a little longer and the tattered man talked about his hometown. Then he said rather calmly, "I don't believe I can walk much farther. You look pretty tired yourself. I bet you're worse off than you think. You should take care of your wound. It's not good to leave these things alone. Where is it?" Henry had been hoping the man wouldn't bring up this topic again. He now gave a cry of anger and made a furious motion with his hand. "Oh, don't bother me!" he said, annoyed at the tattered man. The shame he felt at his actions made him yell at his only friend. "Well, goodness knows I don't want to bother anybody," the other said. There was a little sound of sadness in his voice. "Goodness

knows, I've got enough of my own to worry about." Henry, who had been thinking to himself and glancing at the tattered man with hatred, spoke in a hard voice. "Good-bye," he said. The tattered man looked at him in amazement. "Why—why, partner, where are you going?" he asked unsteadily. His thoughts seemed to be swimming around in his head. "Now—now—look—here, you. Now—I won't have this—this won't do. Where— where are you going?" Henry pointed. "Over there," he said. "Well, now look—here—now," said the tattered man, rambling. His head was hanging forward and he slurred his words. "This thing won't do, now. I know you. You want to go walking away with a bad wound.

It's not right. You should let me take care of you. It's not right for you to go—walking off —with a bad wound—it's not—not right— it's not." Henry climbed a fence and started running away. He could hear the tattered man calling after him, but he kept going. Once he had gotten some distance away, he turned and saw the tattered man wandering around in the field. Henry wished he had been hurt in the battle. The simple question the tattered man had asked him was like an injury. He knew he wouldn't be able to hide his secret. Everybody would know that he had run from the fight. He couldn't even protect himself from simple questions.