THE Nick Adams STORIES by Ernest Hemingway Read Free Book Online Page A

sitting opposite him beside Ad. The hot fried ham and eggs tasted wonderful.
    â€œMister Adams is right hungry,” the Negro said. The little man whom Nick knew by name as a former champion fighter was silent. He had said nothing since the Negro had spoken about the knife.
    â€œMay I offer you a slice of bread dipped right in the hot ham fat?” Bugs said.
    â€œThanks a lot.”
    The little white man looked at Nick.
    â€œWill you have some, Mister Adolph Francis?” Bugs offered from the skillet.
    Ad did not answer. He was looking at Nick.
    â€œMister Francis?” came the nigger’s soft voice.
    Ad did not answer. He was looking at Nick.
    â€œI spoke to you, Mister Francis,” the nigger said softly.
    Ad kept on looking at Nick. He had his cap down over his eyes. Nick felt nervous.
    â€œHow the hell do you get that way?” came out from under the cap sharply at Nick.
    â€œWho the hell do you think you are? You’re a snotty bastard. You come in here where nobody asks you and eat a man’s food and when he asks to borrow a knife you get snotty.”
    He glared at Nick, his face was white and his eyes almost out of sight under the cap.
    â€œYou’re a hot sketch. Who the hell asked you to butt in here?”
    â€œNobody.”
    â€œYou’re damn right nobody did. Nobody asked you tostay either. You come in here and act snotty about my face and smoke my cigars and drink my liquor and then talk snotty. Where the hell do you think you get off?”
    Nick said nothing. Ad stood up.
    â€œI’ll tell you, you yellow-livered Chicago bastard. You’re going to get your can knocked off. Do you get that?”
    Nick stepped back. The little man came toward him slowly, stepping flat-footed forward, his left foot stepping forward, his right dragging up to it.
    â€œHit me,” he moved his head. “Try and hit me.”
    â€œI don’t want to hit you.”
    â€œYou won’t get out of it that way. You’re going to take a beating, see? Come on and lead at me.”
    â€œCut it out,” Nick said.
    â€œAll right, then, you bastard.”
    The little man looked down at Nick’s feet. As he looked down the Negro, who had followed behind him as he moved away from the fire, set himself and tapped him across the base of the skull. He fell forward and Bugs dropped the cloth-wrapped blackjack on the grass. The little man lay there, his face in the grass. The Negro picked him up, his head hanging, and carried him to the fire. His face looked bad, the eyes open. Bugs laid him down gently.
    â€œWill you bring me the water in the bucket, Mister Adams,” he said. “I’m afraid I hit him just a little hard.”
    The Negro splashed water with his hand on the man’s face and pulled his ears gently. The eyes closed.
    Bugs stood up.
    â€œHe’s all right,” he said. “There’s nothing to worry about. Pm sorry, Mister Adams.”
    â€œIt’s all right.” Nick was looking down at the little man. He saw the blackjack on the grass and picked it up. It had a flexible handle and was limber in his hand. Worn black leather with a handkerchief wrapped around the heavy end.
    â€œThat’s a whalebone handle,” the Negro smiled. “They don’t make them any more. I didn’t know how well you could take care yourself and, anyway, I didn’t want you to hurt him or mark him up no more than he is.”
    The Negro smiled again.
    â€œYou hurt him yourself.”
    â€œI know how to do it. He won’t remember nothing of it. I have to do it to change him when he gets that way.”
    Nick was still looking down at the little man, lying, his eyes closed, in the firelight. Bugs put some wood on the fire.
    â€œDon’t you worry about him none, Mister Adams. I seen him like this plenty of times before.”
    â€œWhat made him crazy?” Nick asked.
    â€œOh, a lot of things,” the Negro answered