Then he
said, solemnly: "Listen. If you go out now, you leave me in the
lurch, with nothin' on God's green earth to depend on but your brother
--and you know what he is. I've depended on you for it ALL since Jim
died. Now you've listened to that dam' doctor, and he says maybe you
won't ever be as good a man as you were, and that certainly you won't
be for a year or so--probably more. Now, that's all a lie. Men don't
break down that way at your age. Look at ME! And I tell you, you can
shake this thing off. All you need is a little GET-up and a little
gumption. Men don't go away for YEARS and then come back into MOVING
businesses like ours--they lose the strings. And if you could, I
won't let you--if you lay down on me now, I won't--and that's because
if you lay down you prove you ain't the man I thought you were."
He cleared his throat and finished quietly: "Roscoe, will you take
a month's vacation and come back and go to it?"
"No," said Roscoe, listlessly. "I'm through."
"All right," said Sheridan. He picked up the evening paper from a
table, went to a chair by the fire and sat down, his back to his son.
"Good-by."
Roscoe rose, his head hanging, but there was a dull relief in his
eyes.
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