"There was no Cogan."
"No Cogan."
"No, no Cogan."
"And no bull-fight, and no Valera, and no Torellas, nor Juan, and it
never happened?"
"Why, of course it happened, and just as I've told it. But not to
anybody named Cogan. There was no Cogan, or rather"--Kieran rolled over
on his side and rested his head on his elbow--"I'm Cogan."
"Oh-h-h. Oh-h-h. And you're Campbell, the old champion athlete?"
"Yes, I'm Campbell. And I'm Cogan. And I'm Kieran, pump-man on this
wall-sided oil-tanker at fifty-five per month."
"But why?"
"Why, why?" He sat up. The passenger could see the thick, dark eyebrows
draw together. "Why? Why anything? What would you do?"
"Forget it."
"Forget it. But can you?--everything? No--you betcher you can't. And
it's every man to his own cure. Some I know get drunk and fight. And
some I know who get drunk and cry. Some worry their friends to death,
and some others beat their wives. Every man to his way. I have no
wife"--he laughed softly--"and I want to keep my friends. So I run my
heart out in races and beat up bully bosons, and fight bulls--when I
can."
"But when you can't?"
"When I can't? Why, when I can't, I lay out on the fo'c's'le head and
bay up at a two-horned moon."
The passenger turned and looked down. "Thank your God, Kieran," he said,
"you can laugh when you say that."
The pump-man's smile died away. "Maybe I'm thanking God," he said
softly, "for more than that."