Bradbury Stories by Ray Bradbury Page A

tell them—one part humble and one part proud—‘I was the drummer boy at the battle of Owl Creek,’ or the Tennessee River, or maybe they’ll just name it after the church there. ‘I was the drummer boy at Shiloh.’ Good grief, that has a beat and sound to it fitting for Mr. Longfellow. ‘I was the drummer boy at Shiloh.’ Who will ever hear those words and not know you, boy, or what you thought this night, or what you’ll think tomorrow or the next day when we must get up on our legs and move ?”
    The General stood up. “Well, then. God bless you, boy. Good night.”
    â€œGood night, sir.”
    And, tobacco, brass, boot polish, salt sweat and leather, the man moved away through the grass.
    Joby lay for a moment, staring but unable to see where the man had gone.
    He swallowed. He wiped his eyes. He cleared his throat. He settled himself. Then, at last, very slowly and firmly, he turned the drum so that it faced up toward the sky.
    He lay next to it, his arm around it, feeling the tremor, the touch, the muted thunder as, all the rest of the April night in the year 1862, near the Tennessee River, not far from the Owl Creek, very close to the church named Shiloh, the peach blossoms fell on the drum.

THE BEGGAR ON O’CONNELL BRIDGE
    â€œA FOOL ,” I SAID . “T HAT’S WHAT I AM .”
    â€œWhy?” asked my wife. “What for?”
    I brooded by our third-floor hotel window. On the Dublin street below, a man passed, his face to the lamplight.
    â€œHim,” I muttered. “Two days ago . . .”
    Two days ago, as I was walking along, someone had hissed at me from the hotel alley. “Sir, it’s important! Sir!”
    I turned into the shadow. This little man, in the direst tones, said, “I’ve a job in Belfast if I just had a pound for the train fare!”
    I hesitated.
    â€œA most important job!” he went on swiftly. “Pays well! I’ll—I’ll mail you back the loan! Just give me your name and hotel.”
    He knew me for a tourist. It was too late, his promise to pay had moved me. The pound note crackled in my hand, being worked free from several others.
    The man’s eye skimmed like a shadowing hawk.
    â€œAnd if I had two pounds, why, I could eat on the way.”
    I uncrumpled two bills.
    â€œAnd three pounds would bring the wife, not leave her here alone.”
    I unleafed a third.
    â€œAh, hell!” cried the man. “Five, just five poor pounds, would find us a hotel in that brutal city, and let me get to the job, for sure!”
    What a dancing fighter he was, light on his toes, in and out, weaving, tapping with his hands, flicking with his eyes, smiling with his mouth, jabbing with his tongue.
    â€œLord thank you, bless you, sir!”
    He ran, my five pounds with him.
    I was half in the hotel before I realized that, for all his vows, he had not recorded my name.
    â€œGah!” I cried then.
    â€œGah!” I cried now, my wife behind me, at the window.
    For there, passing below, was the very fellow who should have been in Belfast two nights ago.
    â€œOh, I know him ,” said my wife. “He stopped me this noon. Wanted train fare to Galway.”
    â€œDid you give it to him?”
    â€œNo,” said my wife simply.
    Then the worst thing happened. The demon far down on the sidewalk glanced up, saw us and damn if he didn’t wave !
    I had to stop myself from waving back. A sickly grin played on my lips.
    â€œIt’s got so I hate to leave the hotel,” I said.
    â€œIt’s cold out, all right.” My wife was putting on her coat.
    â€œNo,” I said. “Not the cold. Them .”
    And we looked again from the window.
    There was the cobbled Dublin street with the night wind blowing in a fine soot along one way to Trinity College, another to St. Stephen’s Green. Across by the sweetshop two men stood mummified in the shadows. On the corner