Derry spread his rug on the icy ground. "Sit on this and wrap up your legs—you'll freeze out here."
His father did not move. "I am puf-feckly comfa'ble."
The General rarely got his syllables tangled. Things at times happened to his legs, but he usually controlled his tongue.
"I am puf-feckly comfa'ble—go home, Derry."
"I can't leave you, Dad."
"I want to be left."
He had never been quite like this. There had been moods of rebellion, but usually he had yielded himself to his son's guidance.
"Dad, be reasonable."
"I'd rather sit here and freeze—than go home with a—coward."
It was out at last. It struck Derry like a whiplash. He sprang to his feet. "You don't mean that, Dad. You can't mean it."