I floated around the raft so I could study her in the moon-light. I’ve known plenty of women in my day, but she was a picture.
“Don’t,” she called; “you’re making me shy.”
I came up on to the raft and sat beside her.
“It’s all right,” I said.
She looked at me over her shoulder, then leaned against me. Her back was warm, but the tiny drops of water on her skin felt cold against me.
“Tell me the story of your life,” she said.
“It wouldn’t interest you.”
“Tell me.”
I grinned at her. “Nothing happened much until I went into the Army. I came back from France with a lot of sharp-shooting medals, a beautiful case of shell-shock and an itch to gamble. No one wanted me. I couldn’t get a job. One day I got into a poker game. I kept in that poker game for three weeks. We shaved, ate and drank at the table. I made five grand, and then someone got mad. I hit him with a bottle, and he pulled a gun on me. Guns don’t scare me. I was in the Ardennes push. Anything that a punk gambler starts after that is kid’s stuff. I took the gun away and beat the guy soft with it. We went on playing with him under the table. We used him as a rug.”
She crossed her arms over her breasts and kicked the water gently. “Tough guy,” she said.