On top of the crest, surrounded by
the wounded and the dying, sat a single man in khaki, the light of
victory in his gleaming eyes, and Paddy's lifeless body clasped in
his weary arms.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
"Yes," Carew said meditatively; "I wish there had been glory enough
to go around. As long as there wasn't, though, I am glad it was
fated to fall to your share."
Weldon hurled a little black stone at a great black rock.
"Not so much glory, after all."
Carew raised his eyes and apostrophized the dark gray clouds rushing
across the paler gray arch of the sky.
"Just listen to the man! What can he be wanting? 'Not so much
glory!' And he recommended for a V. C.!"
Weldon shook his head.
"What does it profit a man," he paraphrased; "if he gain the V. C.
and lose one of his best friends? Besides, I didn't gain it; it was
fated. Paddy was as brave as I, and so were half a dozen more of
them. It was only chance that brought me through the bullets."
"Poor Paddy!" Carew's tone was full of thoughtful regret.
"Not poor at all. He had the end we all are wishing for. He died
with his boots on, and fighting pluckily for a forlorn hope.
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