“For a few weeks, anyhow,” Jimmie said, watching the eyes. They did what he had expected. They dilated with alarm and widened further with rage—for the time between fingers naps. Then they were blank again. They moved toward Mrs. Bailey.
Biff had said he “hadn’t thought” about being out of the army. That—and his eyes—were the final clinching proofs. If it had been an honest accident Biff would have thought of his delivery at once—and admitted it. Whooped about it. Crowed over it. But Biff had prepared that little disavowal—for the first person who reminded him that his misfortune was not untinged with good luck.
Mrs. Bailey, realizing that Biff’s gaze was resting on her and that he vaguely wanted something done or said, crossed the room to Jimmie’s side. “You mustn’t make him talk so much! He’s in agony!”
“I’m all right,” Biff protested. His voice grew weaker. There was a tremor in it.
“Jim, old kid. I’m sorry I socked you this morning.”
“It’s okay. Forget it.”
“I want you to know I’m sorry—that’s all. I’ll be getting the old whiffaroo pretty soon, and Doc Cather will be going over me, and if the works slip—anyhow, I want you to know.”
Jimmie nodded. He was looking straight at Biff. Biff looked away.
Mrs. Bailey was streaming tears.
Mr. Bailey blew his nose, sumptuously.