"And now shake hands and scoot, my son, for this spot isn't healthy. Say 'Good-bye and God bless you!' And—if you didn't mind—you might kiss me"—the uninjured hand lifted clumsily and pointed—"here on my forehead.... Steady on! Hold hard! Thumbs up, old man!"
For sobs were racking the thin young frame, and the bright tears were running. He gasped out:
"I—I—can't go away and leave you—to—to die all alone!"
Die....
The dreadful word, at last, dropping with a dull shock through the wounded man's consciousness as a heavy stone sinks through deeps of black water. Swirling rings of mist in Franky's brain, threatened to close down and blot out all things. He thrust back the grey menace of unconsciousness with a brave effort, whispering:
"Die.... Rats! What are you—talking about? It's me for the gay life every time! All I've—got to do is to lie here—and—wait until they fetch me.... They're coming—before to-morrow morning—give you my solemn word!"
"You're sure?"
"Dead sure. Look here—can you remember my name was Norwater? Captain, First Battalion Bearskins Plain?" The stumbling voice went on as the boy nodded: "Well then, I'd like you to put in a word for me when you say your prayers, sometimes. I might have a little chap of my own, by-and-by, to do that for his Pater. What's this, best child?"
A black wooden Crucifix with the Figure of Our Lord in white plaster was being held close to the dimming eyes.
"It's a Crucifix. I think it must have fallen down from the room that was above here. Won't you keep it—to help you through the night-time—just as the one on my Rosary helps me? ..."