“Uncle Colonel,” said the boy, swallowing, “I think—I want—to—see—Daddy.”
The Colonel had handled boys and men in his day, and knew just when kindness was most cruel.
“Paul, you will do what I ask,” he said sharply. “Tomorrow we shall make our plans.”
The sharp tone pulled the boy together.
“Yes, sir,” he replied quietly, “but—but—oh, Uncle Colonel, I know now what Mother meant when she—told me—” The boy’s voice faltered, he drew a deep breath, stood quietly for a few moments, then continued, “when she told me to tell Daddy—about—the ‘seventy times seven.’ Poor Daddy!” The brave little voice trailed off into a whisper.
“Come, boy, I want you to be a man, and a brave man. Your father needs you and needs you to be strong and steady.”
He could have chosen no better word. The boy’s head went up, his shoulders back. He threw the reins over the pony’s head, mounted and sat waiting for the Colonel.
“Right-oh!” cried the Colonel. “Let’s gallop a bit.” They were on the open road and for half a mile the Colonel’s broncho raced Joseph off his feet.
“Always thought my bronc was just a shade better than your pinto,” said the Colonel, pulling up. But Paul declined the challenge, allowing the pinto to choose his own gait, which for that matter meant a racing pace should the broncho feel so inclined.
Arrived at home they found a household torn with anxiety and a-thrill with the echoes of the battle. Peg must have had a truly blissful hour. But one of the Colonel’s quiet words was all that was needed to suppress all curiosity and all undue exuberance of spirit.