Barry took a candle and went in beside his friend. As he sat there gazing upon the greying face, the wounded man opened his eyes.
“That you, Barry?” he asked with a quiet smile.
Barry started. Only in the very first weeks of their acquaintance had McCuaig called him by his first name, and never during the past months had he used anything but his rank title. Now all rank distinctions were obliterated. They were as man to man.
“Yes, Mac, it's me. Do you know what I was thinking about? I was thinking of the first time I saw you coming down that rapid in your canoe.”
“I remember well, Barry. I often think of it. It's a long time ago,” said McCuaig in his soft, slow voice. “I've never been sorry but once that I come, and that time it was my own fault, but I didn't understand the game.”
“You've made a great soldier, Mac. We are all proud of you,” said Barry, putting his hand upon McCuaig's. McCuaig's long thin fingers tightened upon Barry's hand.
“I think I'm going out,” he said, with his eyes on Barry's face. “What do you think?”
It was the time for truth telling.
“Oh, Mac, old man,” said Barry, putting his head down close to him to hide from him the rush of tears that came to his eyes, “I'm afraid you are, and I hate to have you go.”
“Why, Barry, you crying for me?” asked McCuaig in a kind of wonder. “Say, boy, I'm awful glad you feel that way. Somehow I don't feel quite so lonely now.”