“Oh, sure I am. God, I do really crazy things. For a while, she almost sent me to this psychiatrist even. But I didn’t go.”

“We’re both nuttier’n hell,” Berry-berry said. “And I don’t even care. Do you?”

“Naw, hell,” Clinton said. “I don’t care.”

“We’re Ralph Williams’ two prize Galbralians, that’s what we are,” Berry-berry said. “I feel sorry for the old man. I do. I can’t hardly look at him even. You know what he’d be doing if it wasn’t for her? He’d be sittin’ around in a whorehouse drinking beer. He would, I swear.”

“Yeah, I guess maybe you’re right about that.”

“You know, Clint, she bamboozled the poor old bastard. She’s got him bamboozled. God, I’m glad I got out of that hell hole.”

The talk between the two young men went round and round in this way. Clinton was soon hungry and dizzy. They stopped at a roadhouse. Clinton ate a sandwich and Berry-berry drank brandy. They sat in this place for a long time, sat in a back booth that had linoleum on the counter, and for perhaps three hours or more, Clinton listened while Berry-berry told these several stories of his escapades in the last two years: