"Good to see you there, my boy. That was my only grief. I feared I might
not see you again. Thank the good God that he allowed me to see you."
"He is good, dad, isn't He? Good to me; good to us both."
"Yes, He is good," said his father, and fell asleep. For almost two
hours he slept, a sleep of exhaustion, due to the terrific strain of the
past forty-eight hours, and woke refreshed, calm and strong.
"You are a lot better, dad," said Barry. "I believe you are going to
pull through, eh!"
"A lot better, Barry," said his father, "but, my boy, we are soldiers,
you and I. I shall not be long, but remember, we are soldiers."
"All right, dad. I'll try to play the game."
"That's the word, Barry. We must play the game, and by God's grace we
will, you and I--our last game together."
Through the afternoon they talked, between intervals of sleep, resolved
each to help the other in playing to the end, in the manner of British
soldiers, that last, great game.
They talked, of course, of home and their happy days together, going far
back into the earlier years of struggle on the ranch.
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