That was an event Jim never forgot. He was fascinated at the thought of
what the day meant to Grant and by his apparent indifference. He sat
silently by the tree and when Grant got off his horse and came near,
walking now in the path where the sunlight sifted down through the trees,
he closed his eyes. Grant came to where he sat and stopped, apparently
thinking him dead. His hand reached down and took the bottle of whisky.
For a moment they had something between them, Grant and Jim. They both
understood that bottle of whisky. Jim thought Grant was about to drink,
and opened his eyes a little. Then he closed them. The cork was out of the
bottle and Grant clutched it in his hand tightly. From the distance there
came a vast shout that was picked up and carried by voices far away. The
wood seemed to rock with it. "It's done. The war's over," Jim thought. Then
Grant reached over and smashed the bottle against the trunk of the tree
above Jim's head. A piece of the flying glass cut his cheek and blood came.
He opened his eyes and looked directly into Grant's eyes. For a moment the
two men stared at each other and the great shout again rolled over the
country. Grant went hurriedly along the path to where he had left his
horse, and mounting, rode away.
Standing in the race track looking at Geers, Jim thought of Grant. Then his
mind came back to this other hero. "What a man!" he thought.
Pages:
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316