He would pull this young fellow back; but later he knew that he would have to fight the boy's lack of will to live. He lit a cigarette and loitered about. I have never told you so, or Sydney, but I can sing—rather well. His mind was filled briefly with psychic images of a charnel house that danced like a spider in his head. ‘They weren’t no soldiers. Each of my scholars thinks it his own shirt. We shall have—hardly any money. “There are some people,” he said at last, “who seem fated to carry on their shoulders the burdens of other people. Que pasa con ustedes?” He returned in bad Spanish.
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