Floyd was all attention. He spoke with a thrill in his voice.
“If it comes, we Americans will not be wanting in patriotism.”
Martin didn’t seem to feel the insinuation.
“Patriotism, bah! Who cares? We’ll have to go; if we don’t, they’ll shoot us.”
Mr. Garrison was sitting with his head in his hands. Floyd arose and went to him. He had been failing for some time, complained of dizziness. Dr. McClaren couldn’t discover any organic trouble. Floyd, who watched every change of expression, saw him grow pale.
“Father—you don’t feel well.”
“Oh yes!—but I think I’ll go and rest awhile.”
He rose from the chair, staggered; Martin caught him, carried him up, and laid him on the bed.
Floyd bent over his father, frantically begging him to speak. The stricken man raised his hand in a mute blessing, then closed his eyes.
To Floyd, the next few weeks were chaotic; time, space, light, darkness lost all meaning. Martin never left him during those black days; always there in the sleepless horror of the night, to read to him, to go out and pace the streets with him, when the walls became insupportable. He would have gone under without Martin.