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"War ain't no picnic," said Judkins. "Well, God damn it, isn't that a reason for not going out of your way to raise more hell with people's feelings than you have to?" A face with peaked chin and nose on which was stretched a parchment-colored skin appeared in the door. "Hello, boys," said the "Y" man.
In appearance he was cadaverous-looking, tall and thin, with a stoop in his shoulders. His skin was parchment-colored, and his eyes heavy and slow of movement. Europe's plaything, a witty Frenchman had once called him; but those about him found it hard work often to make him dance to their piping.
His parchment-colored skin was indented with wrinkles; from time to time he coughed so violently as to rack his slight frame, and his hand, thin and wrinkled, as it rested on the quilt that covered him, shook as with palsy. It was hard to tell how old the man was. He looked over seventy, but there were indications that he had aged prematurely.
"I have made mistakes, too," Rachael said, strangely stirred, "and for the boys' sake, for Warren's sake, I want to be wise!" The thin old hand patted hers. Old Mrs. Gregory lay with closed eyes, no flicker of life in her parchment-colored face. "Pray about it!" she said in a whisper. She patted Rachael's hands for another moment, but she did not speak again.
"We ain't got no money," replied Bill Stillman, the smallest but readiest-tongued. "You got money, Bill," retorted Leonard Price, a parchment-colored wisp of nineteen who had recently become a widower. "I got to git clo'es with it if I hev'. There's Mallston: git him to set for his picter."
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