In the early dawn John Lester came out on the verandah, staggering as he walked. Mr. Warner, who had sat there throughout the night, jumped up, catching him by the arm, but the father shook him off blindly, dropping into a chair a little way off, his whole frame shaking with tearless, rending sobs. Mr. Warner watched him for a moment, and then hurried away noiselessly. He was back almost instantly, a glass of brandy in his hand.
"Drink this," he said authoritatively
John Lester took the draught at a gulp.
"He's asleep," he said. "It will only be for a moment, of course—the pain will wake him. My God, Warner, it would be easier to see him dead!"
"I know," Robert Warner said.
"If he'd cry out!" the father groaned. "He lies there and holds on to us—I tell you my hand is sore from his poor fingers; and his eyes ask us for help, and we can't do a thing. And he will not give in. Just 'Buck up, School!' when the pain is almost beyond endurance. It's too much strain for him—it would ease him, I believe, if he would scream. We've begged him to let himself go, but he won't."
"And his mother?"
"She just kneels there and holds his hand, and tries to help him through. I don't know how she stands it. It's been ghastly for the last half-hour—poor little son, he asked for pity at last. 'Can't you put me to sleep, doctor?' he said. And there's not a drop of stuff left. It cut the doctor to the heart to tell him."
"And then?"
"He didn't say anything—-only tried to smile. And then I suppose God had pity, for he fell asleep suddenly." He stopped, sitting erect to listen. "There's his mother's voice—he's awake again." He stumbled back into Dick's room, and Mr. Warner heard him speaking, his deep tones wrung with pity and love: "Hold on to me, old son."