“I was Bellyful,” said Scipio, becoming quiet. “Yes, that was eight years ago.” He mused still more, his eyes grew wistful. “I was nineteen then. God, what good times I have had!” VII WHERE IT WAS When Scipio had brought to an end the edifying anecdote, he lay in his hospital bed, silent and a little tired after so sustained a recital. “Why not write,” I inquired, “a book, and call it Tales From My Past?” He looked at me suspiciously, but suspicion melted into what immediately sparkled in the tones of his reply. “In spite of my ancestors, I don’t know French.” For an instant I was stupid--I have many such instants. “You’ve often told me,” he had to explain, “that in France y’u can print anything.” “Oh, well!” I laughed, “quite a number of yours are harmless enough--even for our magazines. This one for instance.” But his thoughts had gone on; he was gazing through the open window with a craving eye. All out-of-doors was his true home, his hearth and bed, his natural workshop and playground; indoors had been merely his occasional resort--a place where a man went for a brief visit when he felt like spending his money. “I’m goin’ to get well,” he said, still watching the far-off, golden hills. “I _am_ getting well. And wunst I’m on my legs I’ll start makin’ a lot more Past.” “Do!” I exclaimed. “Do. It isn’t everybody who can, even when they try.” He grunted. “Huh! I ain’t never tried much. Didn’t have to. Things just kind o’ seem to happen when I’m around.” “Did you lie just now?” I asked. “Lie? When?” “Didn’t you fix up the ending?” “Fix up nothin’! That’s what them two old junipers actually did.” “You’ll remember,” I persisted, “you forbade me the other day to ‘monkey with the facts,’ when I told you I didn’t like the ending of Bellyful’s adventure in Repose Valley.” “Sure! Us Western men don’t care about fixed-up things when we know how things are--when we’ve been the things ourselves. And will you tell me”--Scipio grew earnest--“what’s the point of a book lyin’ about life the way more’n half of ’em do? The way I wouldn’t let y’u do about Bellyful?” “Oh, our sincere and pious public is determined that virtue shall triumph in print, anyhow--and that nothing naked is true until draped.” “Not me. I don’t want any of them bib-and-tucker-and-safety-pin stories they hand you out. What made y’u think I’d lied?” “Well, it seemed too good, too virtuous, too right.” He grinned, and I perceived this to be at my expense--he had caught _me_ taking divergent postures toward life and toward print. “I surrender!” I laughed. “I’m a liar too!”