FIFTY GRAND
“He can’t sweat.”
“Do you suppose he’s got the con? He never had any trouble making weight, did he?”
“No, he hasn’t got any con. He just hasn’t got anything inside any more.”
“He ought to sweat,” said Hogan.
Jack came over, skipping the rope. He was skipping up and down in front of us, forward and back, crossing his arms every third time.
“Well,” he says. “What are you buzzards talking about?”
“I don’t think you ought to work any more,” Hogan says. “You’ll be stale.”
“Wouldn’t that be awful?” Jack says and skips away down the floor, slapping the rope hard.
That afternoon John Collins showed up out at the farm. Jack was up in his room. John came out in a car from town. He had a couple of friends with him. The car stopped and they all got out.
“Where’s Jack?” John asked me.
“Up in his room, lying down.”
“Lying down?”
“Yes,” I said.
“How is he?”
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