Perry stared at his father so hard that the colonel noticed it.
“Well, boy,” he said, “what is it?”
“I was thinking about what you said, father.”
“About his going back? Well, what about it?”
“How is he to go all the way back by himself?”
“The same way as he came, sir, of course.”
“He couldn’t do it, father. His feet are sore, and he’d have to carry all the provisions he’d want on the way.”
“Provisions! To carry? Why, he hasn’t got any.—Have you, sir?” Cyril shook his head. “Then how do you expect to get back?”
“I don’t know,” said the boy sadly. “No!” thundered the colonel. “Of course you don’t know. Nice sort of a young scoundrel you’ve proved yourself. Scoundrel? No: lunatic. You can’t go on with us, because, out of respect for your father, I won’t have you; and you can’t go back alone, because you have no stores. What do you mean to do—lie down and die?”
“Perhaps I’d better,” said Cyril bitterly; “there seems to be nothing else I can do.”