"You must decide for yourself," said Mr. Perkins. How he felt, Johnnie could not tell. The face of the scoutmaster was in the shadow, and chiefly he seemed taken up with the polishing of his pince-nez.
"Y' know, I thank y' awful much," Johnnie declared, "for plannin' out 'bout me goin' and—and so on."
"You're as welcome as can be!"
Johnnie drew those yellow brows together. "I wonder what Mrs. Kukor would think I ought t' do," he continued. "And—and what would Mister Roosevelt do if he was me? And that boss of all the Boy Scouts——"
"General Sir Baden-Powell."
"Yes, him. What would he think about it, I wonder? And then Edith Cavell, what would she say?"
Mr. Perkins went on with his polishing.
"Father Pat, he said somethin' once t' me about the way y' got t' act if y' ever want t' be happy later on, and have folks like y'. Oh, if only the Father was alive, and knew about it! But maybe he does know! but if he don't, anyhow God does, 'cause God knows ev'rything, whether y' want Him to or not. My! I wouldn't like t' have God turn against me! I'd—I'd like t' please God."
Still the scoutmaster was silent.
"You heard about my father, didn't y', Mister Perkins?" Johnnie asked presently. "He wouldn't be saved if my mother couldn't be, and jus' stayed on the ice with her, and held her fast in his arms till—till——" How clearly he could see it all!—his father, his feet braced upon the whirling cake, with that frailer body in his arms, drifting, drifting, swift and sure, toward destruction, but going to his death with a wave of the hand. His father had laid down his life; but his son would have to lay down only a small part of his.