George looked at him again uneasily. He stubbed out his cigarette and took another. He hesitated, then he offered the packet to Alfy. “You’d better smoke,” he said.
Alfy took a cigarette out of the carton. He didn’t do it easily because his hand was shaking, but George pretended he hadn’t noticed. When he lit their cigarettes he was annoyed that his own hand was very unsteady.
Alfy looked at him across the tiny flame of the match. There was a look in George’s eyes that startled him. George looked away immediately, but it gave Alfy quite a shock. He realized, not without a stab of jealousy, that George was suffering just as much as he was. This discovery rather pulled him together and he slumped back in his chair to consider it.
Well, it was understandable. George had always got on well with Margie. He’d been in and out most days since they were married. Wasn’t George his best friend? It was swell of George to feel bad about it, or was it? He frowned down at his feet. This won’t do, he told himself. He’d got quite enough on his mind right now. It wasn’t the time to think up new worries. Maybe he was being a little too hard on George. Maybe, if he got his mind to thinking about George, it’d help him forget what was going on.
He said with a little burst of confidence: “I don’t like that croaker, George. There’s something about that guy.”
George ran his thick fingers through his hair. “Yeah?” he said. “What’s the matter with him? Ain’t he any good?” There was an anxious note in his voice.
“Sure he’s good. The best croaker in the town, but he ain’t got any feelin’. A while back I heard him laughing.”
“Laughin’?”
“Yeah, and the nurse laughed too.”
There was a long pause. Then George said, “That’s a hell of a thing to do.”