I see you; I see you.
If you want to see your father in the Fatherland,
Keep your head down, Fritzie boy.”
“Why”—Shipp uttered a choking cry—“he’s out of his head!”
“Oh yes; he has been that way ever since they amputated.”
“‘Amp—’ Good God!” Shipp groped blindly for support; briefly he covered his eyes. Then, like a man in a trance, he followed down the aisle until he stood, white-lipped and trembling, at the foot of Dalrymple’s bed.
It was difficult to recognize Dimples in this pallid, shrunken person with the dark, roving eyes and babbling tongue. The voice alone was unchanged; it was husky, faint as if from long, long use, but it was brave and confident; it ran on ceaselessly:
“Keep your nerve up, pal; you’re standing it like a hero, and we’ll have you out to the road in no time. Smokes! I tell you they must have smokes if you have to bring ’em in on your back—Gangway for the soup-man! Come and get it, boys. Hot soup—like mother used to make. Put on the Harry Lauder record again. Now then, all together:
“I love a lassie, a bonnie, blue-eyed lassie.”
The little minister had laid a cool hand upon Dimples’s burning brow; his head was bowed; his lips were moving.