"
"Yes, sir," said Bronson, dutifully.
"It is dead lonesome, Bronson, and I can't keep Jean tied here all of
the time. She is looking pale, don't you think she is looking pale?"
"Yes, sir. I think she misses Mr. Derry."
"Well, she'll miss him a lot more before she gets him back," grimly.
"He'll be going over soon--"
"Yes, sir."
"I wish I were going," the old man was wistful. "Think of it, Bronson,
to be over there--in the thick of it, playing the game, instead of
rotting here--"
It was, of course, the soldier's point of view. Bronson, being
hopelessly civilian, did his best to rise to what was expected of him.
"You like it then, sir?"
"Like it? It is the only life. We've lost something since men took up
the game of business in place of the game of fighting."
"But you see, sir, there's no blood--in business." Bronson tried to
put it delicately.
"Isn't there? Why, more men are killed in accidents in factories than
are killed in war--murdered by money-greedy employers."
"Oh, sir, not quite that."
"Yes, quite," was the irascible response. "You don't know what you are
talking about, Bronson.
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