When C. J. returned, the sun shone into the room no more; it was
afternoon.
Kenyon was very white.
"Well?"
"Kenyon, they don't know!"
"But they're still in the house. Why haven't they gone? What are they
waiting for? Tell me, C. J. You said you'd tell me!"
"Poor old Kenyon--dear old fellow!" faltered Forrester. "I promised to
tell you, I know I did, and downstairs they've asked me to. Now you'll
never feel it, Kenyon. They're going to do something which may make you
better. You--you'll be put to sleep--you'll never feel a thing!"
"When is it to be?"
"This afternoon--very soon."
Kenyon drew a hard breath.
"You've got to be in the room, C. J.!"
"Very well, if they will let me. But you'll never know, Kenyon--you'll
know nothing at all about it!"
"They _must_ let you. You've got to hold my hand right through, whether
I feel anything or not. See?"
"My dear boy! My brave old fellow!"
"It's a bargain?"
"I'd better go and ask them now."
"Hold on a bit. How you do like to do a bolt! I wish this hadn't come
so soon ... there was so much I'd got to tell you ... all what I
thought of in the night. You know the game we had, the night before
you went, last summer? John would call it Gentlemen and Players; poor
old John! I remember every bit of it--especially that leg-hit. It was
sweet!. Well, when Ethel got run out, and our side lost--ah! I thought
you'd remember--I played the fool, and you told me not to grumble at
the umpire's decision. You said life was like cricket, and I mustn't
dispute the umpire, but go out grinning----"
"I didn't mean that, Kenyon! You know I didn't! I never thought----"
"Perhaps not, but I did in the night; and I'm thinking of it now, C.
J., I'm thinking of nothing else!"