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"
Sometimes
us
old
fellas
can
surprise
you
with
our
appetites
,
"
I
said
to
Elaine
,
and
handed
her
the
toast
.
"
You
try
.
"
She
broke
off
another
fragment
and
dropped
it
on
the
floor
.
Mr.
Jingles
approached
it
,
sniffed
,
looked
at
Elaine
...
then
picked
it
up
and
began
to
eat
.
"
You
see
?
"
I
said
.
"
He
knows
you
're
not
a
floater
.
"
"
Where
did
he
come
from
,
Paul
?
"
"
Have
n't
a
clue
.
One
day
when
I
went
out
for
my
early-morning
walk
,
he
was
just
here
,
lying
on
the
kitchen
steps
.
I
knew
who
he
was
right
away
,
but
I
got
a
spool
out
of
the
laundry
room
occasional
basket
just
to
be
sure
.
And
I
got
him
a
cigar
box
.
Lined
it
with
the
softest
stuff
I
could
find
.
He
's
like
us
,
Ellie
,
I
think
--
most
days
just
one
big
sore
place
.
Still
,
he
has
n't
lost
all
his
zest
for
living
.
He
still
likes
his
spool
,
and
he
still
likes
a
visit
from
his
old
blockmate
.
Sixty
years
I
held
the
story
of
John
Coffey
inside
me
,
sixty
and
more
,
and
now
I
've
told
it
.
I
kind
of
had
the
idea
that
's
why
he
came
back
.
To
let
me
know
I
should
hurry
up
and
do
it
while
there
was
still
time
.
Because
I
'm
like
him
--
getting
there
.
"
"
Getting
where
?
"
"
Oh
,
you
know
,
"
I
said
,
and
we
watched
Mr.
Jingles
for
awhile
in
silence
.
Then
,
for
no
reason
I
could
tell
you
,
I
tossed
the
spool
again
,
even
though
Elaine
had
asked
me
not
to
.
Maybe
only
because
,
in
a
way
,
him
chasing
a
spool
was
like
old
people
having
their
slow
and
careful
version
of
sex
--
you
might
not
want
to
watch
it
,
you
who
are
young
and
convinced
that
,
when
it
comes
to
old
age
,
an
exception
will
be
made
in
your
case
,
but
they
still
want
to
do
it
.
Mr.
Jingles
set
off
after
the
rolling
spool
again
,
clearly
with
pain
,
and
just
as
clearly
(
to
me
,
at
least
)
with
all
his
old
,
obsessive
enjoyment
.
"
Ivy-glass
windows
,
"
she
whispered
,
watching
him
go
.
