THE Nick Adams STORIES by Ernest Hemingway Read Free Book Online

right,” he said.
    â€œNo, I’m not. I’m crazy. Listen, you ever been crazy?”
    â€œNo,” Nick said. “How does it get you?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Ad said. “When you got it you don’t know about it. You know me, don’t you?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI’m Ad Francis.”
    â€œHonest to God?”
    â€œDon’t you believe it?”
    â€œYes.”
    Nick knew it must be true.
    â€œYou know how I beat them?”
    â€œNo,” Nick said.
    â€œMy heart’s slow. It only beats forty a minute. Feel it.”
    Nick hesitated.
    â€œCome on,” the man took hold of his hand. “Take hold of my wrist. Put your fingers there.”
    The little man’s wrist was thick and the muscles bulged above the bone. Nick felt the slow pumping under his fingers.
    â€œGot a watch?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNeither have I,” Ad said. “It ain’t any good if you haven’t got a watch.”
    Nick dropped his wrist.
    â€œListen,” Ad Francis said. “Take ahold again. You count and I’ll count up to sixty.”
    Feeling the slow hard throb under his fingers Nick started to count. He heard the little man counting slowly, one, two, three, four, five, and on—aloud.
    â€œSixty,” Ad finished. “That’s a minute. What did you make it?”
    â€œForty,” Nick said.
    â€œThat’s right,” Ad said happily. “She never speeds up.”
    A man dropped down the railroad embankment and came across the clearing to the fire.
    â€œHello, Bugs!” Ad said.
    â€œHello!” Bugs answered. It was a Negro’s voice. Nick knew from the way he walked that he was a Negro. He stood with his back to them, bending over the fire. He straightened up.
    â€œThis is my pal Bugs,” Ad said. “He’s crazy, too.”
    â€œGlad to meet you,” Bugs said. “Where you say you’re from?”
    â€œChicago,” Nick said.
    â€œThat’s a fine town,” the Negro said. “I didn’t catch your name.”
    â€œAdams. Nick Adams.”
    â€œHe says he’s never been crazy, Bugs,” Ad said.
    â€œHe’s got a lot coming to him,” the Negro said. He was unwrapping a package by the fire.
    â€œWhen are we going to eat, Bugs?” the prizefighter asked.
    â€œRight away.”
    â€œAre you hungry, Nick?”
    â€œHungry as hell.”
    â€œHear that, Bugs?”
    â€œI hear most of what goes on.”
    â€œThat ain’t what I asked you.”
    â€œYes. I heard what the gentleman said.”
    Into a skillet he was laying slices of ham. As the skillet grew hot the grease sputtered and Bugs, crouching on long nigger legs over the fire, turned the ham and broke eggs into the skillet, tipping it from side to side to baste the eggs with the hot fat.
    â€œWill you cut some bread out of that bag, Mister Adams?” Bugs turned from the fire.
    â€œSure.”
    Nick reached in the bag and brought out a loaf of bread. He cut six slices. Ad watched him and leaned forward.
    â€œLet me take your knife, Nick,” he said.
    â€œNo, you don’t,” the Negro said. “Hang onto your knife, Mister Adams.”
    The prizefighter sat back.
    â€œWill you bring me the bread, Mister Adams?” Bugs asked. Nick brought it over.
    â€œDo you like to dip your bread in the ham fat?” the Negro asked.
    â€œYou bet!”
    â€œPerhaps we’d better wait until later. It’s better at the finish of the meal. Here.”
    The Negro picked up a slice of ham and laid it on one of the pieces of bread, then slid an egg on top of it.
    â€œJust close that sandwich, will you, please, and give it to Mister Francis.”
    Ad took the sandwich and started eating.
    â€œWatch out how that egg runs,” the Negro warned. “This is for you, Mister Adams. The remainder for myself.”
    Nick bit into the sandwich. The Negro was