Then suddenly he paused. He lifted his head, caught with his eye a pink,
round cloud that sailed against the evening blue beyond the window,
heard the harpist, heard his father turn and exclaim, as he saw him.
He knew, as he stood there, that at last the moment had come. His friend
had returned.
All the room was buzzing with it. The dolls fell in a neglected heap,
the train on the carpet, the fire behind the fender, the reels of cotton
that were on the table--they all knew it.
His friend had returned.
His impulse was, there and then, to sit down.
His friend was whispering: "Come along!... Come along!... Come along!"
He knew that, on his surrender, his father would make sounds like,
"Well, old man, tired, eh? Bed, I suggest." He knew that bed would
follow. Then darkness, then his friend.
For an instant there was fierce battle between the old forces and the
new. Then, with his eyes upon his father, resuming that hiss that is
proper only to ostlers, he continued his march.
He reached the wall. He caught his father's leg. He was raised on to his
father's lap, was kissed, was for a moment triumphant; then suddenly
burst into tears.
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