Читать книгу The Dark River онлайн

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Turning to the letter, he read slowly, with deep enjoyment, reluctant to come to the end of each page. It was as though his friend were there beside him, talking in the blunt incisive manner he remembered so well.

We're not so young as we were, Tyson, but damned if I'll admit it. Why should I? I'm as sound as ever I was. I'm a better man at fifty-four than most of these post-war company commanders scarcely half my age. I've got a division now, and I'm proud of it, in a way. But it's not a patch on old Wing's lot that went overseas in May, '15. How could it be when the best blood of England was drained into French soil? We'll never again be the nation we were, old friend. We're bled white: that's the plain truth.

Enough of this. Now about my son--or should I say, my two sons? The truth is, Tyson, that I'm closer to George McLeod than I am to my own boy. At least, I understand him better. I think you'll like the pair of them, but you will find George easier to get on terms with in the beginning. Alan is more reserved; at any rate, with me, and I've only myself to blame. I played the blasted fool with him when he was a youngster. From the day he was ten, I tried to steer him toward the Army, with no success. It used to exasperate me to see the little interest he took in whatever interested me. I thought, then, it was pure stubbornness, and having plenty of that in my own character I naturally resented Alan's. At last I had the sense to see that I was on the wrong track with him. Since then I've let him go his own way. A good job, too. I might easily have spoiled his life for him.