Meanwhile, McComas looked at his grandson and writhed. So many openings, so many things to be done; yet what future aid had he to count on for carrying along his line and for reaping the opportunities in his field? A child of four, in rompers, pushing a little wheelbarrow of pebbles along garden-paths. The years dragged. It was all too great an irony.
He sent for Albert. Albert still limped a little, but it was not to be for long.
"You've done enough for your country," he declared with blunt emphasis. "Now do something for me. You're almost well?"
"I think so."
"You want to pitch in?"
"I do."
"You want to amount to something?" continued McComas, pausing on the edge of an invidious bit of characterization.
"Of course."
"You would like to come with me?"
"Yes." Surely his own father could not help him to a future.