next door."

When he was gone, Martha came back in, and he looked at her face and was
glad. She was smiling when she kissed him, and she looked less tired.

"Is it all right for me to die now?" he grunted.

"Donny, don't start that again."

"Where's the boots? You promised to bring them?"

"They're in the hall. Donny, you don't want them."

"I want them, and I want a drink of whiskey, and I want to hear them
fire the beast." He said it slow and hard, and he left no room for
argument.

When she had got the huge boots over his shrunken feet, the magnasoles
clanged against the iron bedframe and clung there, and she rolled him up
so that he could look at them, and Old Donegal chuckled inside. He felt
warm and clean and pleasantly dizzy.

"The whiskey, Martha, and for God's sake, make them stop the noise till
after the firing. Please!"

She went to the window and looked out for a long time. Then she came
back and poured him an insignificant drink.

"Well?"

"I don't know," she said. "I saw Father Paul on the terrace, talking to
somebody."

"Is it time?"

She glanced at the clock, looked at him doubtfully, and nodded. "Nearly
time."

The orchestra finished a number, but the babble of laughing voices
continued. Old Donegal sagged. "They won't do it. They're the Keiths,
Martha. Why should I ruin their party?"

She turned to stare at him, slowly shook her head. He heard someone
shouting, but then a trumpet started softly, introducing a new number.
Martha sucked in a hurt breath, pressed her hands together, and hurried
from the room.

"It's too late," he said after her.

Her footsteps stopped on the stairs. The trumpet was alone. Donegal
listened; and there was no babble of voices, and the rest of the
orchestra was silent. Only the trumpet sang--and it puzzled him, hearing
the same slow bugle-notes of the call played at the lowering of the
colors.

The trumpet stopped suddenly. Then he knew it had been for him.

A brief hush--then thunder came from the blast-station two miles to the
west. First the low reverberation, rattling the windows, then the rising
growl as the sleek beast knifed skyward on a column of blue-white hell.
It grew and grew until it drowned the distant traffic sounds and
dominated the silence outside.

_Quit crying, you old fool, you maudlin ass ..._

"My boots," he whispered, "my boots ... please ..."

"You've got them on, Donny."

He sank quietly then. He closed his eyes and let