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"
Holy
shit
,
"
Harry
whispered
.
"
Paul
?
"
Brutal
asked
in
an
unsteady
voice
.
"
Paul
?
"
Coffey
looked
okay
again
--
like
a
fellow
who
has
successfully
coughed
up
a
wad
of
meat
that
has
been
choking
him
.
He
bent
down
,
put
his
cupped
hands
on
the
floor
,
peeked
through
his
fingers
,
then
opened
them
.
Mr.
Jingles
,
absolutely
all
right
--
not
a
single
twist
to
his
backbone
,
not
a
single
lump
poking
at
his
hide
--
ran
out
.
He
paused
for
a
moment
at
the
door
of
Coffey
's
cell
,
then
ran
across
the
Green
Mile
to
Delacroix
's
cell
.
As
he
went
,
I
noticed
there
were
still
beads
of
blood
in
his
whiskers
.
Delacroix
gathered
him
up
,
laughing
and
crying
at
the
same
time
,
covering
the
mouse
with
shameless
,
smacking
kisses
.
Dean
and
Harry
and
Brutal
watched
with
silent
wonder
.
Then
Brutal
stepped
forward
and
handed
the
colored
spool
through
the
bars
.
Delacroix
did
n't
see
it
at
first
;
he
was
too
taken
up
with
Mr.
Jingles
.
He
was
like
a
father
whose
son
has
been
saved
from
drowning
.
Brutal
tapped
him
on
the
shoulder
with
the
spool
.
Delacroix
looked
,
saw
it
,
took
it
,
and
went
back
to
Mr.
Jingles
again
,
stroking
his
fur
and
devouring
him
with
his
eyes
,
needing
to
constantly
refresh
his
perception
that
yes
,
the
mouse
was
all
right
,
the
mouse
was
whole
and
fine
and
all
right
.
"
Toss
it
,
"
Brutal
said
.
"
I
want
to
see
how
he
runs
.
"
"
He
all
right
,
Boss
Howell
,
he
all
right
,
praise
God
--
!
"
"
Toss
it
,
"
Brutal
repeated
.
"
Mind
me
,
Del.
"
Delacroix
bent
,
clearly
reluctant
,
clearly
not
wanting
to
let
Mr.
Jingles
out
of
his
hands
again
,
at
least
not
yet
.
Then
,
very
gently
,
he
tossed
the
spool
.
It
rolled
across
the
cell
,
past
the
Corona
cigar
box
,
and
to
the
wall
.
Mr.
Jingles
was
after
it
,
but
not
quite
with
the
speed
he
had
shown
previously
.
He
appeared
to
be
limping
just
a
bit
on
his
left
rear
leg
,
and
that
was
what
struck
me
the
hardest
--
it
was
,
I
suppose
,
what
made
it
real
.
That
little
limp
.
He
got
to
the
spool
,
though
,
got
to
it
just
fine
and
nosed
it
back
to
Delacroix
with
all
his
old
enthusiasm
.
I
turned
to
John
Coffey
,
who
was
standing
at
his
cell
door
and
smiling
.
It
was
a
tired
smile
,
and
not
what
I
'd
call
really
happy
,
but
the
sharp
urgency
I
'd
seen
in
his
face
as
he
begged
for
the
mouse
to
be
given
to
him
was
gone
,
and
so
was
the
look
of
pain
and
fear
,
as
if
he
were
choking
.
It
was
our
John
Coffey
again
,
with
his
not-quite-there
face
and
strange
,
far-looking
eyes
