"John
Cardigan!" he cried sharply. "Wake up, old pal."
The old eyes opened, and John Cardigan smiled up at his boy. "Good
son," he whispered, "good son!" He closed his sightless eyes again as
if the mere effort of holding them open wearied him. "I've been
sitting here--waiting," he went on in the same gentle whisper. "No,
not waiting for you, boy--waiting--"
His head fell over on his son's shoulder; his hand went groping for
Bryce's. "Listen," he continued. "Can't you hear it--the Silence?
I'll wait for you here, my son. Mother and I will wait together now--
in this spot she fancied. I'm tired--I want rest. Look after old Mac
and Moira--and Bill Dandy, who lost his leg at Camp Seven last fall--
and Tom Ellington's children--and--all the others, son. You know,
Bryce. They're your responsibilities. Sorry I can't wait to see the
San Hedrin opened up, but--I've lived my life and loved my love. Ah,
yes, I've been happy--so happy just doing things--and--dreaming here
among my Giants--and--"
He sighed gently. "Good son," he whispered again; his big body
relaxed, and the great heart of the Argonaut was still. Bryce held
him until the realization came to him that his father was no more--
that like a watch, the winding of which has been neglected, he had
gradually slowed up and stopped.
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