794
PARTISAN REVIEW
"No," Weyl said, sullenly. He wore the depressed, iron, dull
look that Scampi had seen toward the end of his aunt's visit.
"You don't know?"
"I do," he said roughly. "He had a fractured skull, and he
recovered."
How did he know? Had he taken him to a doctor, to a hospital?
Had he made a round of the hospitals afterward to learn what had
happened? But Scampi put down his curiosity; it was best not to
ask. Despite Weyl's denial, it was apparent that he was gruesomely
suffering.
"And you wrote home about it."
"That's queer, isn't it. Yes, I did. . . . " He suddenly shifted.
"Is it worse to you, this thing, because he was an Italian? Do you
feel anything against me for that, especially?"
Scampi slowly considered this, touching the ends of his injured
fingers. "No," he said carefully, "I don't think I do."
Then Weyl seemed to recover his spirits slightly.
"No use having pins in the conscience about it," he said.
"People used to be clouting one another on the head all the time.
They thought it was a joke. Things were maybe better when they
were cruder."
The strange conversation was over and the two men stood
together. The smooth motor continued to brush and tremble in the
engine house in the court. Otherwise, the air was still.
