Of
course, the poor old boy might easily hate the sight of him beside
Gerald. With Gerald himself he really got along famously. He was a most
delightful companion, full of anecdotes and history of the countryside,
every foot of which he had apparently explored in the old days with Chev
and the younger brother, Curtin. Yet even with Gerald, Cary sometimes
felt that aloofness and reserve, and that older protective air that they
all showed him. Take, for instance, that afternoon when they were
lolling together on the grass in the park. The Virginian, running on in
his usual eager manner, had plunged without thinking into an account of
a particularly daring bit of flying on Chev's part, when suddenly he
realized that Gerald had rolled over on the grass and buried his face in
his arms, and interrupted himself awkwardly. "But, of course," he said,
"he must have written home about it himself."
"No, or if he did, I didn't hear of it. Go on," Gerald said in a muffled
voice.
A great rush of compassion and remorse overwhelmed the Virginian, and he
burst out penitently, "What a brute I am! I'm always forgetting and
running on about flying, when I know it must hurt like the very devil!"
The other drew a difficult breath. "Yes," he admitted, "what you say
does hurt in a way--in a way you can't understand. But all the same I
like to hear you. Go on about Chev."
So Skipworth went on and finished his account, winding up, "I don't
believe there's another man in the service who could have pulled it
off--but I tell you your brother's one in a million.
Pages:
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39