I'll Never Be Young Again by Daphne du Maurier Page A

there speaks the one man who hasn’t. At the same time I didn’t agree with him. It went further back than that. “They don’t matter at all,” I said, “the man to kill is the first - the rest don’t count.”
    ‘“You know who he was?” he said. How should I? I shook my head. “Why,” he said, “your pal out on that ranch, I forgot his name. Saw him the other day in town.That’s the whole point of my telling you this story - I thought you knew who I was talking about?”
    ‘“No,” I said.
    ‘“Oh! well, I suppose I’ve been rather indiscreet.” He looked very taken aback. I thought he was a fool, blabbing over two whisky and sodas.
    ‘“Are you speaking the truth?” I asked.
    ‘“Why - I can give you details,” he said. I did not want them though. I got up and walked away. He thought I was crazy. My ideas had all gone smash in a second.
    ‘Because I was young and it wasn’t my business, I wrote to him. He came down the next day. I remember standing up, very proud and serious, and telling him the story I had heard. And I remember him throwing back his head and roaring with laughter.
    ‘“Good Lord, Jake,” he said, “if you expect me to feel responsible for every woman I’ve slept with . . .”
    ‘I hated him then. I hated the way he didn’t even bother to finish his sentence, and I hated his laugh. But most of all I hated him for having destroyed my idea of him. That’s being young, Dick, and that’s why I killed him.’
    I nodded, for this much I understood, and it seemed to me that I was living far more in this story than was Jake, the teller of it, for he leant back with his head against his hands and the firelight on his face, the sound of his voice calm and detached, as though he were reading some impersonal tale from a book; while I leant forward, my chin in my hands, and I didn’t see the fire or the trees of the forest around me, but only the figure of the old Jake standing with his hands clenched in the hot circus tent, with all his illusions crashing about his ears, and before him the laughing face of his friend, who, in a terrible subconscious fashion I could only identify as myself. I had never known this man whom Jake had killed, and yet I knew it was myself and that it was my story.
    ‘When he had finished laughing,’ said Jake, ‘he came over to me and laid his hand on my shoulder. “You take life too seriously, Jake,” he said. “You’re like the leader of a lost cause. Smile, boy, smile. I want to see you fight.” Then I went into the ring, and he watched me, applauding, looking so like his old self of the ranch that it seemed hard to believe the truth of everything that had happened.
    ‘I looked down from my corner on the faces of the men gathered at the ringside, and there he was, smiling at me, winking because of the fun of it all.
    ‘“I’ll pay my two bobs’ worth and have a knock at you myself, Jake,” he said.
    ‘“Come on,” I said. People were laughing all around; they knew we were friends, and it would be a rag.
    ‘“Smash up your pal,” somebody shouted, and outside the tent I could hear the thumping of the drum and the yell of the chap who worked the crowd to come inside.
    ‘“Walk up - walk up - and see the greatest fight of your life. Champion Jake against an unknown Amatoor.”
    ‘I waited for him in my corner. We were about the same size. Often we had knocked each other about out on the ranch. He didn’t look good stripped; I noticed he’d put on flesh, and he’d gone flabby. He wouldn’t be quick on his feet, I thought.
    ‘“This is going to be a hell of a rag,” he called to me; “I’ll lay you out on the floor inside ten minutes.”
    ‘The crowd gaped at us, grinning. The shabby little referee lifted his hand excitedly, and held out his watch, calling time. I worked round to the centre of the ring, while my opponent shuffled on his feet towards me.
    ‘The first blow came from him, he feinted with his left and then