Don could not trust his voice, but he nodded his head with very evident determination and, unlike anything he had ever done before, placed his hand over that of Billy’s and held it. It was not a boylike act, but it seemed as though they were no longer boys, but creatures of profound and heart-stirring sentiment. The soft, droning voice of the dying youth ceased a little; then began again with halting, sometimes difficult speech.
“Father will be pleased, Don, and know he will do as I request. But you are not to open and read the note the nurse wrote for me. You told me, Don—it was the first day—that you would like to go to college when you get through Prep, but that your father could never afford it with so many other boys to raise and educate. But if someone who cared a lot for you, compelled you to accept the money, then you would, Don, wouldn’t you? Please, please, say yes, Don—if we have been friends. That’s good—good. Tell me, Don—what school do you go to—now—when—you go—at home?”
“Brighton.” Don just managed to pronounce the word.
“Don! Brighton! Oh—you didn’t tell me that before. Brighton—was my school, too, Don. Class of—1915. And you—Don—too! Well the good old school will have reason to be proud—of you!”
“Of you—of you, Billy!”
“Perhaps so, if—if I could have—lived—gone on doing things—tried to be—Don, ask the nurse to come here—or the—Major. I guess—I guess—”
The boy’s face had suddenly grown whiter, if that were possible, and a deathly pallor came over it. Don went quickly to do as Billy asked. The nurse came to the bedside of the young man. She bent over him for what seemed a long while—a minute or more. Then she turned to Don.
“Going,” she said. “He called your name again. Perhaps he can hear you.” The nurse made way.
“Billy, dear Billy, I—I’m here,” Don said, his lips close to his pal’s ear. A faint smile came over the patient’s face and then it became rigid. With a light heart Billy Mearns “went West.”