"Huh, no. Of course not." And you know how Champ Wilson is with his platoon. He never pays any attention to what's going on. Especially during training season. You can see it wasn't my fault." "Oh, sure," Warden said. "Alright," he said, "what else has happened?" "That's all, I guess," Baldy said blandly and got up from his chair. He always looked uncomfortable when he had to sit in a chair. "Do you mind if I take the rest of the morning off?" "Take the rest of the morning off," Warden bawled. "What the hell for? What the hell did you do to deserve a morning off?" "Well," Baldy said immovably, "it's practically noon already. By the time I change uniforms and get out to the drill field, they'll practically be ready to come in." He paused in the doorway and looked back at Warden with a closed face. "Oh," he said, as if just remembering. "There's one other thing. Did you see the papers this morning?" "You know I never read the goddam newspapers, Dhom." "Well," Baldy said, looking at him, "Fatso Judson - you know? The Chief Guard of the Stockade? - he was killed the night before last down at the Log Cabin Bar and Grill. Somebody knifed him in the alley." "Is that right," Warden said. "And so what?" "I thought you knew him," Baldy said. "I wouldn't know Fatso Judson from Buster Keaton if I saw him in the middle of the street." "I thought for sure you knew him," Baldy said. "Well, I don't." "Then I guess that's my mistake," Baldy said. "It sure is." "Then I guess that's everything. I told you Galovitch was busted, didn't I?" "You told me." "Then that's all."
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