Billy Cobb, they knew, was becoming a very sick man, not in body but in spirit. Billy Cobb had “the wind up.” Jennie knew this because she was Jennie. Norris knew because, watching Billy grow gaunter and more morose, day by day, and observing that he tossed about in bed at night and often lay for hours on end smoking cigarettes in a chain, he had asked him bluntly what the matter was. And Billy had told him. He trusted Norris.
“John,” confessed Billy, “I’ve got what you had once, I guess.”
“I thought so, Bill,” said Norris. “Well, I beat it—more or less. You’ll beat it too. But it’s certainly hell, ain’t it?”
“It’s hell,” groaned Billy. “And I won’t beat it, John.”
“Shucks! ’Course you will, Bill. Don’t tell me anything I could do you can’t!”
“I won’t beat it, John. I’ve simply got to live with it till the last crash. There’s no way out for me.”
“Don’t be a fool, Bill. You’ve just got nerves. Workin’ too hard. Twice as hard as anybody on the post. And since you’ve had the wind up you’ve worked harder still to ease your conscience. Let up, old-timer. Let ‘George’ do some of the work.”
“John, I tell you I’ll never hear an engine again as long as I live without getting the hoo-haws. And I’ll tell you why. Jennie worries!”
“What? Not Jennie Brent?”
“John, she’s worrying herself sick. You watch her eyes the next time you see her. And she’s losing weight. Think I can beat a thing like that, John?”