On one thick, hot, velvet-black night, his father had come into his room and waked him with a sudden switching on of the light, and said, "Hop up, old chap, you've got to go and tell your mother to stop crying."
"But, father, why? Will she not stop when you tell her?"
"It is because of me that she cries. I have got to go away."
"Oh, father, why have you got to go away?"
"Because there is war, René. I have got to go and fight. And you have got to stay and look after your mother. Quick now; go to her and say, 'I'm here.'"
"But, father——"
"Here's my watch for you, old chap, and the chain, you see. Mind you take care of it. Don't let it run down. I want to find it right to the minute when I come back. And I want to find your mother well, not crying—and you, my brave little man, taking care of everything for me."
"Like the watch, father?"
"Yes, like the watch."
So he had to take simply terrible care of his father's watch.