Through the afternoon they talked, between intervals of sleep, resolved each to help the other in playing to the end, in the manner of British soldiers, that last, great game.
They talked, of course, of home and their happy days together, going far back into the earlier years of struggle on the ranch.
“Hard days, Barry, they were, but your mother never failed me. Wonderful courage she had, and if we were all right, you and I, Barry, she was always happy. Do you remember her?”
“Yes, dad, quite well. I remember her smiling always.”
“Smiling, my God! Smiling through those days. Yes, that's the way she played the game, and that's the only way, boy.”
“Yes, dad,” said Barry, and his smile was brighter than ever, but his knuckles showed white where he gripped the chair.
The nurse came and went, wondering at their bright faces and their cheery voices. They kept their minds upon the old happy days. They recalled their canoe trips, their hunting experiences, dwelling mostly upon the humorous incidents, playing the game. Of the war they spoke little; not at all of what was to be after—the past, the golden, happy past, rich in love and in comradeship, that was their one theme.
As night fell, the father grew weary, and his periods of sleep grew longer, but ever as he woke he found his son's face smiling down upon him.
“Good boy, Barry,” he said once, with an understanding look and an answering smile. “Don't try too hard, my boy.”
“It's all right, dad. I assure you it's all right. You know it is.”