He rubbed his arms slowly, as if to bring back the circulation to numbed limbs.
"You act like you're sick, Ronicky." "I'm getting bad-luck signs, Bill.

That's the short of it." "How come ?" "The old scars are prickling." "Scars?
What scars ?" "Ain't you noticed 'em." It was bedtime, so Ronicky Doone took off his coat and shirt.

The rounded body, alive with playing muscles, was striped, here and there, with white streaks--scars left by healed wounds.
"At your age?
A kid like you with scars ?" Bill Gregg had been asking, and then he saw the exposed scars and gasped.

"How come, Ronicky," he asked huskily in his astonishment, "that you got all those and ain't dead yet ?" "I dunno," said the other.

"I wonder a pile about that, myself.