When he reached home, his father was asleep. Derry looked in on him
and found Bronson sitting erect and wide-eyed beside a night lamp which
threw the rest of the room into a sort of golden darkness. The General
was in a great lacquered bed which he had brought with him years ago
from China. Gilded dragons guarded it and princes had slept in it.
Heavy breathing came from the bed.
"I think he has caught cold, sir," Bronson whispered. "I'm a bit
afraid of bronchitis."
Derry's voice lacked sympathy. "I shouldn't worry, Bronson. He
usually comes around all right."
"Yes, sir. I hope so, sir," and Bronson's spare figure rose to a
portentous shadow, as he preceded Derry to the door.
On the threshold he said, "Dr. Richards has gone to the front. Shall I
call Dr. McKenzie if we need someone--?"
"Has he been left in charge?"
"Yes, sir."
Derry stood for a moment undecided. "I suppose there's no reason why
you shouldn't call McKenzie. Do as you think best, Bronson."
On his way to his own room, Derry paused for a moment at the head of
the great stairway. His mother's picture hung on the landing.
Pages:
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84