“What?”
“I was Bellyful,” said Scipio, becoming quiet. “Yes, that was eight years ago.” He mused still more, his eyes grew wistful. “I was nineteen then. God, what good times I have had!”
VII
WHERE IT WAS
When Scipio had brought to an end the edifying anecdote, he lay in his hospital bed, silent and a little tired after so sustained a recital.
“Why not write,” I inquired, “a book, and call it Tales From My Past?”
He looked at me suspiciously, but suspicion melted into what immediately sparkled in the tones of his reply. “In spite of my ancestors, I don’t know French.”
For an instant I was stupid—I have many such instants.
“You’ve often told me,” he had to explain, “that in France y’u can print anything.”
“Oh, well!” I laughed, “quite a number of yours are harmless enough—even for our magazines. This one for instance.”
But his thoughts had gone on; he was gazing through the open window with a craving eye. All out-of-doors was his true home, his hearth and bed, his natural workshop and playground; indoors had been merely his occasional resort—a place where a man went for a brief visit when he felt like spending his money. “I’m goin’ to get well,” he said, still watching the far-off, golden hills. “I am getting well. And wunst I’m on my legs I’ll start makin’ a lot more Past.”