He had given
himself, his son, the wealth he had hoped to have, but, thank God,
he had had something to give. There were men who could give nothing,
like old Terry Mackenzie, knocking billiard-balls around at the
club, and profanely wistful that he had had no son to go. His mind
ranged over those pathetic, prosperous, sonless men who filed into
the club late in the afternoons, and over the last editions and
whisky-and-sodas fought their futile warfare, their battle-ground a
newspaper map, their upraised voices their only weapons.
On parade days, when the long lines of boys in khaki went by, they
were silent, heavy, inutile. They were too old to fight. The
biggest thing in their lives was passing them by, as passed the
lines of marching boys, and they had no part in it. They were
feeding their hungry spirits on the dregs of war, on committee
meetings and public gatherings, and they were being useful. But
the great exaltation of offering their best was not for them.
He was living a tragedy, but a greater tragedy was that of the
childless.
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