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.”
“Good God, don’t I know it!” the other burst out. “We were all three the jolliest pals together,” he got out presently in a choked voice, ‘Chev and the young un and I; and now———”
He did not finish, but Cary guessed his meaning. Now the young un, Curtin, was dead, and Gerald himself knocked out. But, heavens! the Virginian thought, did Gerald think Chev would go back on him now on account of his blindness? Well, you could everlastingly bet he wouldn’t!
“Chev thinks the world and all of you!” he cried in eager defense of his friend’s loyalty. “Lots of times when we're all awfully jolly together, he makes some excuse and goes off by himself; and Withers told me it was because he was so frightfully cut up about you. Withers said he told him once that he’d a lot rather have got it himself—so you can everlastingly bank on him!”
Gerald gave a terrible little gasp. “I—I knew he’d feel like that,” he got out. “We’ve always cared such a lot for each other.” And then he pressed his face harder than ever into the grass, and his long body quivered all over. But not for long. In a moment he took fierce hold on himself, muttering, “Well, one must carry on, whatever happens,” and apologized disjointedly. “What a fearful fool you must think me! And—and this isn’t very pippy for you, old chap.” Presently, after that, he sat up, and said, brushing it all aside, “We're facing the old moat, aren’t we? There’s an interesting bit of tradition about it that I must tell you.”
And there you were, Cary thought: no matter how much Gerald might be suffering from his misfortune, he must carry on just the same, and see that his visitor
