“So you tossed a few sharks right out of your mind, eh?” I interrupted.
“Oh, hell, I didn’t think of anything, except how nice it would be if he was dead. Well, old-timer, he’s sure slapped me in the face tonight by going back there. Shows what he is. Hell, I’ve been doing things for him all my life, and he’s willing to blackmail me. Guess I was a damn’ fool back over the Gulf, eh? Well, there’ll be excitement about in a few days, I guess. Better get some sleep tonight. Ho-ho-ho!”
I knew then that he had fully made up his mind, that he’d considered everything, and was ready to go. And when that crisis was passed with Penoch O’Reilly, he feared not man, devil or circumstances. Right at that moment he figured that the Army was a thing of the past and that the world was waiting to be bucked by a man in disgrace. The tougher it was, the louder he’d laugh.
The next day we both saw Kennedy at breakfast. He greeted us with a straight stare, said, “Hello,” in his customary breezy manner, ate with relish, and was absolutely himself. His eyes were as cold a green as ever, except for that surface shine that came when he laughed. He told a good story about Noah and the Johnstown flood, indulged in his reminiscences of the Columbus raid and likewise the Galveston flood, in all of which he had participated with considerable gusto.
I just sat there and watched him. That clear-cut, hard face and those fishy eyes made as impenetrable a mask as I’ve ever seen.
“The hell it’s a mask!” I finally told myself. “He just hasn’t any feelings that can’t be expressed in a grin or a laugh or a snarl. He couldn’t hate anybody real hard any more than he could like anybody very much. Except himself.”
At lunch he came breezing in with:
“Well, well, the good old feedbag’ll be fastened round my snoot pronto. The meal ain’t been cooked that I can’t clean up by myself.”
He shook out his napkin, grasped his fork firmly and started in at the salad. His eating was not a pronouncedly delicate proceeding. It was audible for miles around when he wasn’t trying to act unnaturally elegant; and I believe that in a straight contest Kennedy’s eating anything could drown out my snoring.
“By the way, Peewee, my lad, how about a bit of poker at Shirley’s Old Man’s house tonight? I was given instructions to ask you and Slim to come out. Sheriff Trowbridge’ll be there, too. Come, and bring your checkbook, because it’s my night to howl!”