"Sure, they always do nicely at first.
But when the bugs get 'em, they're gone. They think they're better,
they say they are getting well,--God!"
Carol looked at him with questioning reproach in the shadowed eyes.
"It does not hurt us to hope, at least," she said gently. "It does no
harm, and it makes us happier."
"Oh, yes," came the bitter answer. "Sure it does. But wait a few
years. Bugs eat hope and happiness as well as lungs."
Carol quivered. "You make me afraid," she said.
"Thompson is an old croak," interrupted one of the younger men, smiling
encouragement. "Don't waste your time on him,--talk to me. He is such
a grouch that he gives the bugs a regular bed to sleep in. He'd have
been well years ago if he hadn't been such a chronic kicker. Cheer up,
Mrs. Duke. Of course your husband will get along. Got it right at the
start, didn't you?"
"Oh, yes, right at the very start."
"That's good. Most people fool around too long and then it's too late,
and all their own fault. Sure, your husband is all right. It's too
bad Thompson can't die, isn't it? He's got too mean a disposition to
keep on living with white folks."
"Oh, I shouldn't say that," disclaimed Carol quickly. "He--he is just
not quite like the people I have known.
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