'Oh,' he said, 'at last, I get mad. When they come one day, shouting,
"You damn Dago, dirty dog," and will take my hat again, oh, I get mad,
and I would kill them, I would kill them, I am so mad. I run to them,
and throw one to the floor, and I tread on him while I go upon another,
the biggest. Though they hit me and kick me all over, I feel nothing, I
am mad. I throw the biggest to the floor, a man; he is older than I am,
and I hit him so hard I would kill him. When the others see it they are
afraid, they throw stones and hit me on the face. But I don't feel it--I
don't know nothing. I hit the man on the floor, I almost kill him. I
forget everything except I will kill him--'
'But you didn't?'
'No--I don't know--' and he laughed his queer, shaken laugh. 'The other
man that was with me, my friend, he came to me and we went away. Oh, I
was mad. I was completely mad. I would have killed them.'
He was trembling slightly, and his eyes were dilated with a strange
greyish-blue fire that was very painful and elemental. He looked beside
himself. But he was by no means mad.
We were shaken by the vivid, lambent excitement of the youth, we wished
him to forget.
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