Nolan was somewhat dubious. "It ain't much. I don't think but it's
somewheres there." He laid a finger on the pit of his stomach. They
lifted his shirt, and then privately they exchanged a glance of horror.
"Does it hurt, Jimmie?" said Grierson, hoarsely.
"No," said Nolan, "it don't hurt any, but I feel sort of
dead-to-the-world and numb all over. I don't think it's very bad."
"Oh, it's all right," said Watkins.
"What I need is a drink," said Nolan, grinning at them. "I'm
chilly--lying on this damp ground."
"It ain't very damp, Jimmie," said Grierson.
"Well, it is damp," said Nolan, with sudden irritability. "I can feel
it. I'm wet, I tell you--wet through--just from lying here."
They answered hastily. "Yes, that's so, Jimmie. It _is_ damp. That's
so."
"Just put your hand under my back and see how wet the ground is," he
said.
"No," they answered. "That's all right, Jimmie. We know it's wet."
"Well, put your hand under and see," he cried, stubbornly.
"Oh, never mind, Jimmie."
"No," he said, in a temper. "See for yourself." Grierson seemed to be
afraid of Nolan's agitation, and so he slipped a hand under the
prostrate man, and presently withdrew it covered with blood. "Yes," he
said, hiding his hand carefully from Nolan's eyes, "you were right,
Jimmie."
"Of course I was," said Nolan, contentedly closing his eyes. "This
hillside holds water like a swamp." After a moment he said, "Guess I
ought to know. I'm flat here on it, and you fellers are standing up."
He did not know he was dying. He thought he was holding an argument on
the condition of the turf.