give　me　the　fucking　creeps；　Paulie。〃

〃Let　go　of　me；〃　I　said；　trying　to　keep　the　whine　out　of　my　voice。　It　wasn't　just　pride；　either。　I　thought　if　he　heard　it；　it　might　inflame　him；　the　way　the　smell　of　sweat　can　sometimes　inflame　a　bad…tempered　dog　…　one　which　would　otherwise　only　growl　…　to　bite。　That　made　me　think　of　a　reporter　who'd　covered　John　Coffey's　trial。　The　reporter　was　a　terrible　man　named　Hammersmith；　and　the　most　terrible　thing　about　him　was　that　he　hadn't　known　he　was　terrible。

Instead　of　letting　go；　Dolan　squeezed　my　wrist　again。　I　groaned。　I　didn't　want　to；　but　I　couldn't　help　it。　It　hurt　all　the　way　down　to　my　ankles。

〃What　do　you　do　down　there；　Paulie？　Tell　me。〃

〃Nothing！〃　I　said。　I　wasn't　crying；　not　yet；　but　I　was　afraid　I'd　start　soon　if　he　kept　bearing　down　like　that。　〃Nothing；　I　just　walk；　I　like　to　walk；　let　go　of　me！〃

He　did；　but　only　long　enough　so　he　could　grab　my　other　hand。　That　one　was　rolled　closed。　〃Open　up；〃　he　said。　〃Let　Poppa　see。〃

I　did；　and　he　grunted　with　disgust。　It　was　nothing　but　the　remains　of　my　second　piece　of　toast。　I'd　clenched　it　in　my　right　hand　y　left　wrist；　and　there　was　butter　…　well；　oleo；　they　don't　have　real　butter　here；　of　course　…　on　my　fingers。

〃Go　on　inside　and　wash　your　damned　hands；〃　he　said；　stepping　back　and　taking　another　bite　of　his　Danish。　〃Jesus　Christ。〃

I　went　up　the　steps。　My　legs　were　shaking；　my　heart　pounding　like　an　engine　with　leaky　valves　and　sha