Stephen Crane

Last Words Stephen Crane

The companion was watching the waves play. He seemed overcome with perspiring discomfort as a man who is resolved to set another man right. Suddenly his mouth turned into a straight line. "To be sure you are not," he cried vehemently. "You look like thunder. I do not desire to be unpleasant, but I must assure you that your freckled skin continually reminds spectators of white wall paper with gilt roses on it. The top of your head looks like a little wooden plate. And your figure heavens!" For a time they were silent. They stared at the waves that purred near their feet like sleepy sea kittens. Finally the first man spoke. "Well," said he, defiantly, "what of it?" "What of it," exploded the other. "Why, it means that you'd look like blazes in a bathing suit." They were again silent. The freckled man seemed ashamed. His tall companion glowered at the scenery. "I am decided," said the freckled man suddenly. He got boldly up from the sand and strode away. The tall man followed, walking sarcastically and glaring down at the round, resolute figure before him. A bath clerk was looking at the world with superior eyes through a hole in a board. To him the freckled man made application, waving his hands over his person in illustration of a snug fit. The bath clerk thought profoundly. Eventually, he handed out a blue bundle with an air of having phenomenally solved the freckled man's dimensions.