into the fireplace and immediately lighted another one. Then he looked at his shoes and muttered, “I’m a pretty bad egg myself.”
“So I Ve heard.” Hugh was frankly sarcastic.
“Well, I am.” Slade looked up defiantly. “I guess it’s up to me to explain—and I don’t know how to do it. I’m a dumbbell. I can’t talk decently. I flunked English One three times, you know.” He hesitated a moment and then blurted out, “I was looking for those bags myself.” “What?” Hugh leaned forward and stared at him, bewildered and dumfounded. “You were looking for them?” Yeah ... You see, I’m a bad egg—always been a bad one with women, ever since I was a kid. Gotta have one about every so often. . . . I—I’m not much.”
But what made you stop me ?” Hugh pressed his hand to his temple. His head was aching, and he could make nothing out of Slade’s talk.
“Because—because . . . Oh, hell, Carver, I don t know how to explain it. I’m twenty-four and you ’re about nineteen, and I know a lot that you don’t. I was brought up in South Boston and I ran with a gang. There was n’t anything rotten that we did n t do. . , . I’ve been watching you. You ’re different.” “How different?” Hugh demanded. women just as much as you do.”
“I want
