Now, laying in the ditch with Billy and the scouts after having been shot at, Weary made Billy take a very close look at his trench knife. It wasn't government issue. It was a present from his father. It had a ten-inch blade that was triangular 'in 'cross section. Its grip consisted of brass knuckles, was a chain of rings through which Weary slipped his stubby fingers. The rings weren't simple. They bristled with spikes.
Weary laid the spikes along Billy's cheek, roweled the cheek with savagely affectionate restraint. 'How'd you-like to be hit with this-hm? Hmmmmmmmmm?' he wanted to know.
'I wouldn't,' said Billy.
'Know why the blade's triangular?'
'No.'
'Makes a wound that won't close up.'
'Oh.'
'Makes a three-sided hole in a guy. You stick an ordinary knife in a guy-makes a slit. Right? A slit closes right up. Right?
'Right.'
'Shit. What do you know? What the hell they teach you in college?'
'I wasn't there very long.' said Billy, which was true. He had had only six months of college and the college hadn't been a regular college, either. It had been the night school of the Ilium School of Optometry.
"Joe College,' said Weary scathingly.
Billy shrugged...
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