slide. I’m called just Billy. That’s because I never could slide at all. I can’t slide, Billy. I can’t slide. It just catches. Every time I try it, it catches.” He shut his eyes. “I can’t slide, Billy. It’s awful when you can’t slide.”
“Yes,” said “Sliding Billy” Turner.
“Yes, what?” William Campbell looked at him.
“You were saying.”
“No,” said William Campbell. “I wasn’t saying. It must have been a mistake.”
“You were saying about sliding.”
“No. It couldn’t have been about sliding. But listen, Billy, and I’ll tell you a secret. Stick to sheets, Billy. Keep away from women and horses and, and—” he stopped “—eagles, Billy. If you love horses you’ll get horse-shit, and if you love eagles you’ll get eagle-shit.” He stopped and put his head under the sheet.
“I got to go,” said “Sliding Billy” Turner.
“If you love women you’ll get a dose,” William Campbell said. “If you love horses—”
“Yes, you said that.”
“Said what?”
“About horses and eagles.”
“Oh, yes. And if you love sheets.” He breathed on the sheet and stroked his nose against it. “I don’t know about sheets,” he said. “I just started to love this sheet.”
“I have to go,” Mr. Turner said. “I got a lot to do.”
“That’s all right,” William Campbell said. “Everybody’s got to go.”
“I better go.”
“All right, you go.”
“Are you all right, Billy?”
“I was never so happy in my life.”
“And you’re all right?”
“I’m fine. You go along. I’ll just lie here for a little while. Around noon I’ll get up.”
