But he is a good son to me--yes, yes!--a good son, a good son! Tell him I said so--and--good-night." "Nutty," whispered a policeman.

"Come on out o' this boodwar and lave th' ould wan be." And they left him smirking, smiling, twitching his faded lips, and making vague sounds, lying there asleep in his dotage.
And all night long he lay mumbling his gums and smiling, his sleep undisturbed by the stir and lights and tramp of feet around him.
And all night long in the next room lay his son, white as marble and very still.
Toward morning he spoke, asking for his father.

But they had decided to probe for the bullet, and he closed his eyes wearily and spoke no more.
They found it.

What Dysart found as the winter sun rose over Manhattan town, his Maker only knows, for his sunken eyes opened unterrified yet infinitely sad.

But there was a vague smile on his lips after he lay there dead.
Nor did his slayer lie less serenely where bars of sunlight moved behind the lowered curtains, calm as a schoolboy sleeping peacefully after the eternity of a summer day where he had played too long and fiercely with a world too rough for him.
And so, at last, the indictments were dismissed against them both and their cases adjourned _sine die_..