Mounting steadily with his son's arm to sustain him, he argued
garrulously for a sojourn at the nearest hostelry, or for a stop at
Chevy Chase. He would, he promised, go to bed at the Club, and thus be
rid of Bronson. Bronson didn't know his place, he would have to be
taught--

Arriving at the top, he was led to Derry's car. He insisted on an
understanding. If he got in, they were to stop at the Club.

"No," Derry said, "we won't stop. We are going home."

Derry had never commanded a brigade. But he had in him the blood of
one who had. He possessed also strength and determination backed at
the moment by righteous indignation. He lifted his father bodily, put
him in the car, took his seat beside him, shut the door, and drove off.
He felt remarkably cheered as they whirled along at top speed.

The General, yielding gracefully to the inevitable, rolled himself up
in the rugs, dropped his head against the padded cushions and, soothed
by the warmth, fell asleep.

He waked to find himself being guided up his own stairway by Bronson
and the butler.

"Put him into a hot bath, Bronson," Derry directed from the threshold
of his father's room, and, the General, quite surprisingly, made no
protest. He had his bath, hot drinks to follow, and hot water bags in
his bed. When he drifted off finally, into uneasy dreams, he was
watched over by Bronson as if he had been a baby.