"Does my face make you talk that way?" I asked, feeling dimly and
uncomfortably that it did.
"Yes," he replied, "it's your face, your foolish looking face. I can't
help feeling sorry for it and your funny empty little belly."
"You're breaking me down," I answered; "I can't stand kindness."
"I ain't no bully," he said fiercely, as if he was about to strike me.
"I ain't no bully," he repeated, "I'll tell you that."
"No, sir," I replied soothingly, keeping on the alert, "you ain't no
bully."
Here he took me by the arm and dragged me along with him.
"Come on, buddy," he said, "I'm going to take you to the canteen and
feed you. I'm going to do it, I swear to God."
So he fed me. Stacks and stacks of stuff he forced on me until the
flesh rebelled, after which he put things in my pockets, repeating
every little while, "I ain't no bully, I'll tell you that, I ain't no
bully." He spent most of his money, I reckon, but I did not try to
stop him. He wanted to do it and I guess it made him feel better.
After the orgy I took him around and let him pat Mr. Fogerty. He
seemed to like this. Fogerty took it in good part.
_July 11th._ There's something about Wednesday afternoons that doesn't
appeal to me.
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