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"
That
's
all
it
is
,
nothin
'
but
a
lotta
baloney
.
"
His
voice
lost
its
copper
strength
and
became
strained
and
urgent
like
he
did
n't
have
much
time
to
finish
what
he
had
to
say
.
"
Ya
see
,
I
ca
n't
help
it
,
I
ca
n't
--
do
n't
ya
see
.
I
was
born
dead
.
Not
you
.
You
was
n't
born
dead
.
Ahhhh
,
it
's
been
hard
...
"
He
started
to
cry
.
He
could
n't
make
the
words
come
out
right
anymore
;
he
opened
and
closed
his
mouth
to
talk
but
he
could
n't
sort
the
words
into
sentences
any
more
.
He
shook
his
head
to
clear
it
and
blinked
at
the
Acutes
:
"
Ahhhh
,
I.
.
.
tell
...
ya
...
I
tell
you
.
"
He
began
slumping
over
again
,
and
his
iron
ball
shrank
back
to
a
hand
.
He
held
it
cupped
out
in
front
of
him
like
he
was
offering
something
to
the
patients
.
"
I
ca
n't
help
it
.
I
was
born
a
miscarriage
.
I
had
so
many
insults
I
died
.
I
was
born
dead
.
I
ca
n't
help
it
.
I
'm
tired
.
I
'm
give
out
trying
.
You
got
chances
.
I
had
so
many
insults
I
was
born
dead
.
You
got
it
easy
.
I
was
born
dead
an
'
life
was
hard
.
I
'm
tired
.
I
'm
tired
out
talking
and
standing
up
.
I
been
dead
fifty-five
years
.
"
The
Big
Nurse
got
him
clear
across
the
room
,
right
through
his
greens
.
She
jumped
back
without
getting
the
needle
pulled
out
after
the
shot
and
it
hung
there
from
his
pants
like
a
little
tail
of
glass
and
steel
,
old
Pete
slumping
farther
and
farther
forward
,
not
from
the
shot
but
from
the
effort
;
the
last
couple
of
minutes
had
worn
him
out
finally
and
completely
,
once
and
for
all
--
you
could
just
look
at
him
and
tell
he
was
finished
.
So
there
was
n't
really
any
need
for
the
shot
;
his
head
had
already
commenced
to
wag
back
and
forth
and
his
eyes
were
murky
.
By
the
time
the
nurse
eased
back
in
to
get
the
needle
he
was
bent
so
far
forward
he
was
crying
directly
on
the
floor
without
wetting
his
face
,
tears
spotting
a
wide
area
as
he
swung
his
head
back
and
forth
,
spatting
,
spatting
,
in
an
even
pattern
on
the
day-room
floor
,
like
he
was
sowing
them
.
"
Ahhhhh
,
"
he
said
.
He
did
n't
flinch
when
she
jerked
the
needle
out
.
He
had
come
to
life
for
maybe
a
minute
to
try
to
tell
us
something
,
something
none
of
us
cared
to
listen
to
or
tried
to
understand
,
and
the
effort
had
drained
him
dry
.
That
shot
in
his
hip
was
as
wasted
as
if
she
'd
squirted
it
in
a
dead
man
--
no
heart
to
pump
it
,
no
vein
to
carry
it
up
to
his
head
,
no
brain
up
there
for
it
to
mortify
with
its
poison
.
She
'd
just
as
well
shot
it
in
a
dried-out
old
cadaver
.
"
I
'm
...
tired
...
"
"
Now
.
I
think
if
you
two
boys
are
brave
enough
,
Mr.
Bancini
will
go
to
bed
like
a
good
fellow
.
"
