“’You damned scoundrels! You dirty Mountain Grills! Whee—!’That was all.”
Ben snickered quietly.
“Did he hurt your hand? Let’s see.”
“No. You can’t see anything. It’s not hurt,” said Eugene, lifting his bandaged wrist.
“He didn’t hit you, did he?” asked Ben sternly.
“Oh, no. Of course not. He was just drunk. He was sorry about it this morning.”
“Yes,” said Ben, “he’s always sorry about it—after he’s raised all the hell he can.” He drank deeply at his cigarette, inhaling the smoke as if in the grip of a powerful drug.
“How’d you get along at college this year,’Gene?” he asked presently.
“I passed my work. I made fair grades—if that’s what you mean? I did better—this Spring,” he added, with some difficulty. “It was hard getting started—at the beginning.”
“You mean last Fall?”
Eugene nodded.
“What was the matter?” said Ben, scowling at him. “Did the other boys make fun of you?”
“Yes,” said Eugene, in a low voice.
“Why did they? You mean they didn’t think you were good enough for them? Did they look down on you? Was that it?” said Ben savagely.
“No,” said Eugene, very red in the face. “No. That had nothing to do with it. I look funny, I suppose. I looked funny to them.”
“What do you mean you look funny?” said Ben pugnaciously. “There’s nothing wrong with you, you know, if you didn’t go around looking like a bum. In God’s name,” he exclaimed angrily, “when did you get that hair cut last? What do you think you are: the Wild Man from Borneo?”
“I don’t like barbers!” Eugene burst out furiously. “That’s why! I don’t want them to go sticking their damned dirty fingers in my mouth. Whose business is it, if I never get my hair cut?”
