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“I ain’t got no spleen,” said Sweeny. “You believe it?”

The stranger did not respond.

Considerately, Sweeny moved closer to the stranger and yelled in his ear. “Sweeny ain’t had no spleen since nineteen hundred and forty-three,” he yelled.

The stranger dropped his book and almost fell off the bench. He cowered and covered his ringing ears. “I’m not deaf,” he said, full of pain.

Firmly, Sweeny pulled one of the stranger’s hands away from his ear. “I didn’t think you heard me,” he said.

“I heard you,” said the stranger, trembling. “I heard it all: barium meals, gallstones, tired blood, and sleepy liver bile. I heard every word of what Dr. Sternweiss said about your gastric sphincter. Has Dr. Sternweiss thought of setting it to music?”

Sweeny picked up the book of sonnets and put it on the opposite end of the bench, out of the stranger’s reach. “You want to make that little bet now?” he said.

“What bet?” said the stranger, very pale.

“See?” said Sweeny, beaming bleakly. “I was right—you wasn’t listening! A while back I asked you did you want to bet how many kiddleys we got between us, and you said, ‘Um.’ ”

“How many kiddies?” said the stranger. His expression softened—was cautiously interested! He liked children, and thought the bet was a charming one. “Do we count children and grandchildren—or how do we do it?” he said.

“Not kiddies,” said Sweeny. “Kiddleys.”

“Kiddleys?” said the stranger, puzzled.

Sweeny put his hands over the spots where his kidneys were—or had been. “Kiddleys,” he said. His error was one of such long standing that it had the ring of authority.

The stranger was disappointed and annoyed. “If you don’t mind, I don’t want to think about kidneys,” he said. “Please—could I have my book back?”

“After we bet,” said Sweeny craftily.

The stranger sighed. “Would a dime be enough?” he said.

“Fine,” said Sweeny. “The money’s just to make it a little more interesting.”

“Oh,” said the stranger emptily.

Sweeny studied him for a long time. “I guess we got three kiddleys between us,” he said at last. “How many you guess?”

“I guess none,” said the stranger.

“None?” said Sweeny, amazed. “If there wasn’t no kiddleys between us, we’d both be dead. A man can’t live without no kiddleys. You got to guess two, three, or four.”

“I have lived happily since eighteen hundred and eighty-four without a trace of a kiddley,” said the stranger. “I gather that you do have a kiddley, which makes one kiddley between us. Therefore the bet ends in a tie, with no money changing hands. Now, please, sir—would you kindly hand me my book?”

Sweeny held up his hands, barring all access to the book. “How dumb you think I am?” he said challengingly.

“I’ve gone as deeply as I care to into that subject,” said the stranger. “Please, sir—the book.”

“If you ain’t got no kiddleys,” said Sweeny, “just tell me one thing.”

The stranger rolled his eyes. “Can’t we change the subject?” he said. “I used to have a garden up north. I’d like to start a little vegetable garden down here. Do people have little vegetable gardens down here? Do you have a garden?”

Sweeny would not be deflected. He stabbed the stranger in the chest with his finger. “How you eliminate waste?” he said.

The stranger hung his head. He stroked his face in helpless exasperation. He made soft raspberry sounds. He straightened up to smile benignly at a pretty girl jiggling by. “Look at those trim ankles, Mr. Sweeny—those rosy heels,” he said. “Oh to be young—or to pretend to be young, dreaming here in the sunshine.” He closed his eyes, dreamed.

“I guessed right, didn’t I?” said Sweeny.

“Um,” said the stranger.

“We only got three kiddleys between us, and now you’re trying to change the subject and mix me up so’s you can get out of paying off,” said Sweeny. “Well—I don’t mix up so easy.”

The stranger dug a dime from his pocket without opening his eyes. He held it out to Sweeny.

Sweeny did not take it. “I ain’t gonna take it till I know for sure I’m entitled to it,” he