His tone was truculent.

Derry attempted lightness. "You'll be a lump of ice in the morning,
Dad. We'd have to chip you off in chunks."

"You go home with Bronson, son, He is up there. Go home--"

He had once commanded a brigade. There were moments when he was hard
pushed that he remembered it.

"Go home, Derry."

"Not till you come with me."

"I'm not coming."

Derry spread his rug on the icy ground. "Sit on this and wrap up your
legs--you'll freeze out here."

His father did not move. "I am puf-feckly comfa'ble."

The General rarely got his syllables tangled. Things at times happened
to his legs, but he usually controlled his tongue.

"I am puf-feckly comfa'ble--go home, Derry."

"I can't leave you, Dad."

"I want to be left."