“I know, doctor,” said Barry, quietly. “I won't worry him.”
Through the morning Barry sat by his father's cot, giving him, under the directions of the nurse, such stimulants as he needed, now and then speaking a quiet, cheery word.
Often his father opened his eyes and smiled at him.
“Good to see you there, my boy. That was my only grief. I feared I might not see you again. Thank the good God that he allowed me to see you.”
“He is good, dad, isn't He? Good to me; good to us both.”
“Yes, He is good,” said his father, and fell asleep. For almost two hours he slept, a sleep of exhaustion, due to the terrific strain of the past forty-eight hours, and woke refreshed, calm and strong.
“You are a lot better, dad,” said Barry. “I believe you are going to pull through, eh!”
“A lot better, Barry,” said his father, “but, my boy, we are soldiers, you and I. I shall not be long, but remember, we are soldiers.”
“All right, dad. I'll try to play the game.”
“That's the word, Barry. We must play the game, and by God's grace we will, you and I—our last game together.”