A ribby chest he had, and a dry, leathery skin. The blood soaked out from under the cloth he held there against it, and ran down the little gullies between the ribs. Jessamine sat down and acted nervous. He says:
“I'm downright sorry for this, J. R.,” but Craney didn't seem to hear, but motioned with his hand and says softly:
“You'd better clear out.”
Jessamine says, “Now, we can't leave you this way.”
But Craney didn't hear and says, “Call in the guard.” The spearmen came filing in, barefooted, stepping like cats, and took position on each side, so that you could see it was according to discipline, and maybe they'd done it every day when he'd held a court or something. We slid back, feeling shy of the spears, and J. R. looked pleased, and he says:
“You're narrow, Jessamine. You don't permeate. You don't expand. You don't rise to large—Oh, Jessamine! I'm dying, and I'm sick of your face. Tommy,”—he says, speaking hoarse and low—“you'd better go.” His eyes wandered absent-minded to the plush chair with the curtains and chandeliers and the spearmen standing around it, and down the long room, like he was taking his leave of things he'd thought of, and things he'd been fond of, and things he'd hoped for, and things he'd meant to do. He muttered and talked to himself: “I sat there,” he said, “and I did the right thing by the people. Gentlemen, these black idjits are friends of mine. If you don't mind, I'd rather you'd go. But you can stay, Tommy, if you want to.”
So I stayed until he was gone. When I came away I left the spearmen chanting over him.
That was Julius R. Craney. Why, I don't praise him, nor put blame on him. Kamelillo said he was “old boy all right,” but Kamelillo's notions of what was virtuous weren't civilised notions. A man ought to be honest. I've known thieves that were singular human. He was mighty happy when he was a king, was Julius R.