Part 12

“And we’re going to have you with us, Captain Hamilton,” exclaimed Griffith at last, shaking hands and making for the door. “Got a blank? All right, let him fill it out. The concilium meets Tuesday night. Only a few more days and we can get him in on this. Well, I’m glad I met you, Captain.”

Griffith put on his soft felt hat a little to one side and walked out. Hamilton made a movement as if to follow, too.

“Wait a minute, Robert, fill this out!”

Pinkney removed a card from his drawer and handed it to Robert.

“What we need is men who have been overseas, preferably officers, in order to get the soldiers interested in it.”

Robert looked at the row of questions on the card. Was his motive in answering serious? His age, occupation, birthplace, length of local residence and so forth.

“This is worse than an income tax questionnaire,” laughed Robert. “They want to know the color of my hair and eyes, where my parents were born, and my religion. Well, that’s easy enough. But what’s the idea of asking my politics?”

Pinkney smiled. “Oh, some of the questions, I suppose, aren’t really necessary. But we wish to be absolutely exclusive. Suppose a man should answer that he was a Socialist or an Anarchist?”

“Why in the devil would an Anarchist want to join the Trick Track Tribe? He’s opposed to all government. Why should he pay dues to belong to a sort of feudal government, according to the way Griffith outlined it?”

“Well, he might--I suppose he really wouldn’t, but that really isn’t it. Oh, you’ll find out after you join.”

Robert had been asked to join other secret organizations. In every case there had been a certain air of mystery about it and a great to do about selecting only persons of a high level for membership, and, although he had joined only the exclusive Corinth Club, he had always suspected that the mysteriousness and air of exclusiveness of the others had been maintained principally with a view to making membership seem more difficult and hence more desirable. A few questions struck his attention, however, as he jotted down his answers:

“Were your parents born in the United States of America?

“Are you a Gentile or a Jew?

“Do you believe in the principles of Pure Americanism?

“Do you believe in white supremacy?

“What is your religious faith?

“Of what church are you a member, if any?

“Of what religious faith are your parents?

“Do you owe any kind of allegiance to any foreign nation, government, institution, sect, people, ruler or person?”

Robert finished answering the questions and signed a statement “asserting and affirming” that the questions had been truthfully answered.

“Well,” he rose, “I don’t know whether I’ve answered all your questions satisfactorily or not--”

“We’ll let you know,” Pinkney waved the card dry and extended his hand. “But don’t worry about that. The initiation will be next Tuesday. We’ll tell you exactly where to be. Don’t forget!”

Robert walked out of the office with Pinkney’s injunction ringing in his ear. After all, the insistence of every one to have him join the Tribe was rather flattering. But the rest of the day his mind was not so much on the coming ceremony as on the outcome of McCall’s operation.

XXII

Robert did not ask Margaret to set the day for their marriage that day. It was no time for him to be planning his nuptials while his buddy was risking his life in the hospital. He told Margaret of the operation and she sympathized with him.

“What a dreadful thing the war is,” she said. “I don’t suppose you’d care to go anywhere under the circumstances. I can just understand the way you feel. We might just sit at home tonight if you wish and I’ll sing you some ballads.”

She confided her own troubles to him. Difficulty in getting the proper clothing in Corinth. Difficulty in getting her parents to appreciate her more liberal views. Difficulty in getting her mother to allow her to discard corsets. What had happened to the comparatively demure miss that Robert had left behind when he had left Corinth? Two years ago she would no more have dreamed of mentioning corsets than she would have dreamed of smoking a pipe. As for not wearing them, Robert remembered, with amusement, that whereas preachers in describing Corinth as a second Babylon two years ago had pointed to the fact that women were pinching in their waists and allowing their skirts to drag on the ground for the sake of increasing their fascination in the eyes of men, they were now decrying the shameless Jezebels who went with skirts but to their knees and without certain garments that women had always worn. Times had changed.

“I’m thinking of bobbing my hair,” said Margaret. She was curled up on the couch beside him in a childish posture which she would have thought unladylike before the war. “Irene Castle has bobbed hers. But mother has a fit whenever I mention the subject. She won’t even let me smoke. What do you think about it?”

“Oh, I suppose I’m a little old-fashioned--”

“All the men are like that. Howard says the same thing. Dad says it’s immoral. For heaven’s sakes, what’s the way you’ve got your hair combed got to do with morality? Or whether you smoke or not? Men can do everything and the minute a woman wants to do something they do, every one sits on her.”

Robert laughed.

“You look exactly like a small child protesting because you can’t have another piece of candy.”

Margaret pretended to cry in vexation.

“That’s the trouble with you men, you refuse to take us seriously.”

“Well, if you were old and ugly, I suppose I could sit down and argue the thing out with you. But in that case, of course, I wouldn’t care if you clipped your hair or chewed tobacco. Taking you as you are, however, and as I expect you to be to me, I prefer you with your hair exactly as it is--even if it is hard to comb--and without any cigarette between your ruby lips. Of course, in France I saw many splendid women with bobbed hair, and of course, every one smokes there. But that was Paris--and I don’t think you’d look well with a cigarette.”

“That’s no reason at all.”

“Perhaps it isn’t. Still, why shouldn’t it be? Suppose you didn’t look as well with bobbed hair or smoking a cigarette. Shouldn’t that be reason enough?”

“But supposing _I_ thought I looked just as well? If we were married would you forbid me to bob my hair?”

Hamilton considered.

“Not that it would do any good, perhaps, but I think I would.”

Margaret sat up very suddenly.

“There,” she wrenched the ring from her finger, “if you expect to control me after we’re married, we might as well call it off now before it’s too late.”

Robert turned white and his hand trembled as it went out. He stammered unintelligibly.

“Wh-why--why?”

Margaret suddenly laughed.

“I ought to have a snapshot of you. You really thought I meant it. You put your hand out to take it. There, now you may have the pleasure of putting it back again.”

She moved closer to him and placed her right arm about him as he replaced the ring.

“My, you look solemn. You look as though you were actually sorry that I didn’t give you the ring back.”

“No, but you did shock me. Why did you do it, dear?” As he said this he was dimly aware of the fact that there was a trace of truth in what she had said. A very faint trace. He drew her to him and patted her dark hair slowly.

“Well, that is what I wanted,” she blushed. “You’ve acted so cool lately. You haven’t kissed me once this evening.”

“Oh, yes, I did.”

“I mean since you came in. You seem always thinking about something else. So I gave you this shock to, to--”

He kissed her warmly on the lips. He noticed her eyes close and her head tilt back and against him. He heard her sigh and wondered that he could so coolly watch her the while. Poor child, she expected his love. He drew her still more closely to him.

“You haven’t said a word about--about our wedding.”

Robert flushed.

“No, darling. I haven’t talked over business matters with father yet. He seems so busy lately. But as soon as I do we’ll talk it over.”

Love is a peculiar thing, Hamilton thought on the way home. He felt sorry for Margaret. He sympathized with her. Still he had no desire to fondle her. He had done so simply because he knew that she desired it. Was this love? Or was it something else?

Perhaps it was the highest form of love--the love springing from sympathy. And still he had postponed making the decision as to the date of their marriage. Well, by right he should talk to his father first about the business. Here a whole month had gone by during which he had simply loafed about the house and attended innumerable society affairs.

He decided that he must return the poem to McCall, or rather to Dorothy, with a little note explaining how he had found it. Margaret’s actions had given him a new insight into such things. He appreciated better how Dorothy would miss it. He could enclose the poem and the note in another letter to Levin, whose address he had. Levin would surely know where to reach her. Perhaps it would be better to wait until tomorrow, until after the operation. In any case Dorothy would be glad to get the poem back again, but he would know better tomorrow how to word the letter to her.

XXIII

Robert was inspecting the rose bushes with his mother late the next day when Mammy Chloe appeared at the door.

“The telegram company want Mistah Cap’n Robe’t Hamilton at de phone.”

“All right, just a minute.”

“Dat’s what I tell ’em.”

Hamilton was very white, a nervous smile about the corners of his mouth. Mrs. Hamilton gave his arm a little pat:

“Everything will be all right.”

Robert was conscious of her watching him as he hurried up the walk and into the doorway. He could see the patterns of the stone blocks and the lines made by the moss. The branch of an oak tree hung over him and he heard birds chirping in the rustling foliage. Life seemed to pause, to hang between the ticking of a watch. He heard insects humming.

The operator was reading the message, mechanically, by syllables, so that they barely made sense. But he understood. The operation had been successful! He ran out of the house excitedly, waving his arms and sputtering. His mother understood. They both talked excitedly for a moment without listening to each other.

“I knew it would be all right. I knew it would be all right,” Mrs. Hamilton was repeating over and over again.

“Let’s have some one over here tonight,” said Robert excitedly. “Didn’t we use to know some one named McCall?”

“McCall?”

“Or something like that? I must call up Margaret.”

“You don’t mean the McFallons?”

“Yes, I haven’t seen them since I came back. Don’t they come here any more?”

Mrs. Hamilton looked down.

“No, Robert,” she said quietly.

“But I thought you used to be such good friends.”

He ran into the house to telephone Margaret. He had an impulse to run about the city spreading the news, when he recalled that no one knew who McCall was or had the least interest in him.

“I’m going to have some fellows over tonight,” he sang out to his mother. “Is it all right?”

“I’ll be only too glad.”

“I think I’ll call up Jack Perry. He’s back now and Tom McBride, I haven’t seen them in an age. And, of course, Howard Pinkney isn’t such a bad scout.”

“Yes, Howard is a fine chap.”

“You--you haven’t anything against the others have you--Jack and Tom?” Hamilton had perceived something in her praise of Howard that might have been interpreted as a criticism of them.

“No, not against them.” Mrs. Hamilton was silent for a moment. She stooped down to pluck off a dry leaf, then rose and brushed back a wisp of loose hair. “But I thought you were going to join the Tribe.”

“Yes, Tuesday night.”

“Well, don’t you know that they’re Catholics?”

“Who, the Perrys and the McBrides?”

“Yes.”

“I haven’t thought about it at all, but what if they are? McCall is a Catholic, too.”

“Well, you know, dear, that Catholics can’t belong to the Trick Track Tribe.”

“Well, what of it? I can’t belong to the Knights of Columbus. But I think Mr. Perry and Jack both belong. Yes, I remember they do. That never kept them from inviting us. No, that’s impossible. Why some of our most prominent men here are Catholics. Half, say a third anyway, of the Corinth Club are Catholics. What’s belonging to a lodge got to do with it anyway?”

“Well, you may call them, dear, if you wish. Certainly I have no objections. Personally I should be glad to have both Mrs. Perry and Mrs. McBride over. But--well, you call them.”

Hamilton frowned. As he kept growing older he kept bumping into stronger and more surprising prejudices. At three he had learned of the existence of that line between the whites and the blacks. At seven he learned the sharp distinction between the rich and the poor. Next it had been Jew and Gentile. For a few years he had almost forgotten about these social barriers. Now came the most surprising one of all, the most difficult to understand.

Jack Perry and Tom McBride were both at home--it was nearly six--and expressed their delight at the invitation. The Perrys were out of the city, but Tom would ask his parents to come.

“I told you they’d come,” said Robert to his mother. “It’s almost time for dinner. They’re coming a little after eight.”

Mrs. Hamilton looked surprised.

“I don’t know where you could have gotten such an idea, mother. Why, how is it possible?” He tried to tell her what was in his mind. The war. The country united to win. The allied soldiers of many different nations and races and religions. And the armistice only signed a few months ago. But, of course, she knew all that.

Mr. Hamilton had been called out of town on business and they ate alone. There was joy in Robert’s heart. McCall would be able to see. He must write him immediately and send Dorothy the poem. The telephone bell ringing, broke into his thoughts. It was Tom. His parents had made another engagement for the evening of which he had known nothing and like a dutiful son he would be obliged to accompany them. Tomorrow night he would also be engaged. But he’d see him some other time. Robert was turning away when the bell rang again. It was Jack Perry. He had phoned before but the line was busy. He had suddenly remembered that he had an engagement with someone. With whom? Why, with Tom McBride.

“Why, what’s the matter with you, Jack?” asked Robert.

“Nothing,” said Jack. “I simply forgot for the moment. By the way, I understand that you’ve joined the Trick Track Tribe.”

“No, not yet.” Was Jack trying to pump him? He remembered suddenly that joining the Tribe was supposed to be a secret. Jack’s voice became hard over the phone, hard and formally polite.

“Mr. McBride and I are going to attend the Knights of Columbus, a little business meeting. Tell Pinkney and Griffith and the Rev. Mr. Lister that. A Knights of Columbus meeting. Goodbye.”

“But listen, old man--”

It was too late. Perry had rung off. He returned to the table crestfallen and repeated his conversation to his mother.

“The Knights of Columbus!” she said. “You see they were right!”

“Who were right?”

“Howard and Mr. Griffith. They were over here almost six months ago, just before dad joined the Tribe. They were arguing about the power of the Knights of Columbus. It was hard to believe all they said, but they brought proofs of their activities.”

“What activities? I don’t believe it. Why, at camp, I used to be in the K. C. hut as much as the Y. M. C. A. And now they’re starting schools for the ex-service men.”

“It’s an organization to control politics in the United States for the benefit of the Catholic church.”

Robert laughed.

“Mother, do you really believe that? Who’s the governor of our state? He’s a Protestant. Who’s the mayor of our city? Another Protestant. Who are our aldermen? Mostly Protestants--a few Catholics.”

“Ask Dad about the Catholic problem when he comes back, or Howard,” suggested Mrs. Hamilton. “Really, Robert, I don’t know much about it, except from what I’ve heard at the discussions. Of course, there are secrets that dad cannot tell me. But I know that since he joined the Tribe we haven’t associated with any Catholics. Some very fine people, too. Some of my best friends.”

She sighed and looked thoughtfully down at the tablecloth.

“Dad wouldn’t go over to the Perrys after he joined and he always managed to stay away when they came here. I have nothing against them. But you know how it is.”

“Is it that way all over Corinth?” asked Robert. “I haven’t noticed. Yes, I have. There haven’t been any Catholics at most of the functions. And there did seem to be some dissention at the club. There’s no sense to it. It’s got to stop. Why should a fellow risk his life in Europe fighting for democracy and come home to find his own town torn up by the most undemocratic barriers in the world--religion.

“We’re forming an organization--that is the veterans of the war--a democratic organization where every one is on the same footing as every one else. Even rank means nothing there. The private has the same rights and privileges as the general. Race, social position, religion--all these distinctions have been swept away. The American Legion is for all who have been in the service. Why, it doesn’t even matter whether they enlisted or were drafted! That’s real Americanism. But Pinkney keeps talking about the Tribe’s campaign for Americanism. There must be some mistake somewhere. If the Knights of Columbus are going into politics and stirring up religious prejudice, it’s got to stop. I don’t know exactly what Pinkney means by white supremacy, aside from the supremacy it naturally has, and I don’t see the necessity of a society standing for pure womanhood--why that’s part of every man’s religion, of every social and moral law in the world!--but I do know what Americanism means. I can see that it’s needed here and I’m going into the Tribe because I believe a powerful organization like that can help spread it!”

XXIV

Late Tuesday night Robert was picked up at a street corner which had been designated, by an automobile filled with white-robed and hooded figures. The Tribesman beside him placed his finger on his lips and the journey was made in silence. It was a fantastic ride, through the dimly lighted streets, then through the shadowy suburbs, into the country. There was a full moon and under it the earth looked a grotesque thing of shadows--a phantasy in black and white.

As they left the city, Robert noticed other cars, with similar loads of hooded figures, ahead and behind them, all moving silently and without lights. Within a half hour they had reached a large field, the fences guarding which had been pulled down, and in the center of which a circle of cars was being parked under the silent direction of Tribesmen.

Robert and the members of his party dismounted and crossed the field to a thickly-wooded glade, at the edge of which a narrow path was faintly visible in the moonlight. Other candidates joined him until there were perhaps one hundred. These were formed into a long column by means of whispers and gestures. It was exactly midnight by Robert’s wrist watch when suddenly a tall figure in white, bearing aloft a fiery cross, appeared. He marched to the head of the column, the light of the rood casting a ruddy reflection on the upturned faces of the initiates and on the figures in white and causing the shadows to dance back and forth grotesquely. As the bearer of the fiery cross moved slowly forward, the neophytes in groups of ten, each conducted by a Tribesman, followed along the path in the grove, which now gleamed and faded before their footsteps.

It was an awe-inspiring sight. Hamilton was carried back to his childhood, to his first fear of shadows and spectres. Weird ghost stories flickered through his mind. He remembered strange rites of primitive peoples--the initiation of headhunters into their bloody mysteries, of the fearful Thugs, of the secret societies of the Bantus. The shadows clutched about him and the blaze of light flamed up and down ahead.

He had proceeded perhaps fifty feet, when he was suddenly aware of a hooded figure standing motionless beside the path, a grim sentinel, peering at him through the slits in his mask. Fifty feet farther, at a bend in the path, stood another sentinel. They had passed six of these silent figures in white, when the winding column was brought to a sudden halt. The bearer of the cross was being questioned by a guardian. His voice rang through the grove:

“What if any of your party should prove a traitor?”

The reply came in a deep, solemn voice to the hushed initiates:

“He would be immediately banished in disgrace from the Fourth Dimension without fear or favor, conscience would tenaciously torment him, remorse repeatedly revile him, and direful things would befall him.”

Again the questioner:

“Does he know this?”

And again the rejoinder:

“All this he knows. He has heard and he must heed.”

A countersign was given, the guard stepped back, and the column moved forward. Hamilton found himself in a clearing, from the center of which rose a rude altar and about which hundreds of hooded Tribesmen stood massed. The bearer of the fiery cross circled the clearing. The groups of neophytes followed.

The white forms, the flickering light, all had confused Hamilton and he now perceived that the Tribesmen were standing in a double rank, through which he was marching. Four times the group stopped before a Tribesman, who sat exalted on a high chair or rock--exactly what, it was too dark to see--and harangued them. There were questions about obedience, about secrecy, about fidelity, about tribal fealty. Robert was too confused to hear all the questions or to understand those he heard.

The groups of neophytes had once more become a line. The bearer of the fiery rood stalked behind the altar and thrust the flaming emblem in the ground. It was the sole light. A masked figure stepped forward and held out his hand:

“Always remember that to keep the oath means to you, honor, happiness and life; but to violate it means disgrace, dishonor and _death_.” It was a voice of frenzy. The flames and shadows danced weirdly. The moon gleamed through the black trees. The silent Tribesmen peered through the slits in their hoods.

“You will place your left hand over your heart and raise your right hand to heaven.”

Robert obeyed and, in chorus with the other initiates, repeated the words of the oath: