He peered earnestly down on me for a space.
"Does my face make you talk that way?" I asked, feeling dimly and uncomfortably that it did.
"Yes," he replied, "it's your face, your foolish looking face. I can't help feeling sorry for it and your funny empty little belly."
"You're breaking me down," I answered; "I can't stand kindness."
"I ain't no bully," he said fiercely, as if he was about to strike me. "I ain't no bully," he repeated, "I'll tell you that."
"No, sir," I replied soothingly, keeping on the alert, "you ain't no bully."
Here he took me by the arm and dragged me along with him.
"Come on, buddy," he said, "I'm going to take you to the canteen and feed you. I'm going to do it, I swear to God."
So he fed me. Stacks and stacks of stuff he forced on me until the flesh rebelled, after which he put things in my pockets, repeating every little while, "I ain't no bully, I'll tell you that, I ain't no bully." He spent most of his money, I reckon, but I did not try to stop him. He wanted to do it and I guess it made him feel better. After the orgy I took him around and let him pat Mr. Fogerty. He seemed to like this. Fogerty took it in good part.
July 11th. There's something about Wednesday afternoons that doesn't appeal to me. First they make you go away and dress yourself up nice and clean and then they look you over and make you feel nearly as childish as you look. Then they put a gun into your hand that is much too heavy for comfort and make you do all sorts of ridiculous things with this gun, after which you fall in with numerous thousands of other men who have been subjected to the same treatment, and together we all go trotting past any number of officers, who look you over with uncanny earnestness through eyes that seem to perceive the remotest defect with fiendish accuracy. Then we all trot home again and call it a review.