“But you didn’t,” Colonel Welsh said in almost a groan. “Well, and so that’s that. You better go drop in at a hospital, Rigby, and have them take a look at that lump on your head. Take a cab. I’ll contact you later.”
There was the hint of tears in Rigby’s eyes, and in his voice.
“Perhaps I’d better go jump off the Golden Gate Bridge instead!” he said with an effort.
“Don’t be a fool!” Colonel Welsh said not too unkindly, and went over to him. “It was just one of those things, old man. A mighty tough break, but it could just as well have happened to me, or to anybody in the Service. If you feel up to it, chase along to the hospital. I’ll contact you later. Now, don’t be a fool, Rigby. Don’t really get me mad, will you?”
“No, sir,” the other said as he walked toward the door. “But I don’t see why you’re not, now. Anyway—thanks, sir. I’ll make it up some day, I hope and pray.”
“I’m sure you will, Rigby,” Colonel Welsh said, as he unlocked the door and let him out. “See you later.”
The senior officer closed the door, locked it again, and walked slowly back to the middle desk. He dropped into the chair like a man who has aged twenty years in as many seconds. The gaze he fixed on Dave and Freddy was bleak, and laced with bitterness and misery.
“I wish I were a courageous man,” he said heavily. “I wish I had the courage to go jump off the Golden Gate Bridge myself. It surely would remove a lot of woe from my life!”