Part 7

“I’m Russian by parentage, you know,” said Dr. Levin. “The race riots there, the pogroms, were also supposed to be patriotic. It was always the hundred per cent Russians who incited the hooligans to riot. Imagine that! The officials who were living corrupt lives, looting the public treasury, depriving the soldiers and sailors of food and ammunition to swell their own fortunes, those were the ones who always cried Russia for the Russians. In the name of patriotism they not only killed the Jews, but imprisoned, exiled and killed the real patriots, who were working for a republic. You see it always starts with patriotism. And in Russia the idea of religion was mixed in with it. Those who don’t believe as you do are not only enemies of the state, but also of Christ. The victims of the plunderers and murderers become anti-Christs. It’s ironic.”

“I think that’s just a wild dream of yours. But whatever happens”--he raised a glass of champagne--“here’s to our friendship, born of the war to make the world safe for democracy.”

He proposed the toast jocularly, but it symbolized the moment and they drank, almost seriously.

XIV

At the Century roof garden they sat back and watched the spectacle critically.

“It hasn’t the verve of a Paris performance,” remarked McCall.

“Verve--you mean nerve,” replied Hamilton. “But the cocktails are there. Anyway, I like this better.”

“That’s because you’re a Puritan. In Paris you were always being shocked by the exhibitions.” McCall winked at Dr. Levin, who was listening with a smile on his face.

“Ah, yes, a Puritan who drinks cocktails. I don’t mind an exhibition of legs, if they’re good legs--as these are. But in Paris they went too far. Legs were a mere starter. Whenever a person exhibits a moral impulse, you accuse him of being a Puritan.”

“Exactly,” said McCall. “You don’t expect me to call you a goddam prude in company. A person has to be polite. Puritan is merely a euphuism.”

They argued genially for a while and then appealed to Dr. Levin.

“As usual, you are both wrong--and both right,” said Levin, lighting a cigarette. “McCall is a poet and a symbolist. In what to you, Hamilton, would be a shocking disregard of the morals, and to me a mere display of the umbilical region, becomes in McCall’s mind a symbol of freedom, of art, of life. But we’ve sat here almost an hour and it’s time to be moving.”

At the Moulin Rouge, dimly lighted, with soft lights and women’s gowns and jewels glowing subduedly, McCall passed into a sentimental mood.

“Want to hear a little poem I wrote? Wrote it to the sweetest little girl in the world, wrote it on the back of an old envelope one day in the hospital.”

McCall was having difficulty with his “l’s.” A woman with seductive arms and eyes leaned over to him from the next table and smiled, while her escort was fumbling in his pockets for some change.

“She’s the sweetest little girl in the world and I’ll never see her again--never.”

“What’s the matter? A lover’s quarrel?” asked Levin.

“No.” Morosely.

“Where’d you meet her?” asked Hamilton. “That’s a new one on me. Paris?”

McCall nodded. He sipped a highball, ran his fingers through his hair and began in a low, vibrant voice, his handsome boyish face flushed.

“_The agèd pilgrim hastens on the road, Nor stops to pluck the flowers by the way Lest Death o’ertake him ’ere the close of day And find, too late, unreached the soul’s abode._

“_I, too, a pilgrim, love, with quick foot strode Along Life’s highway: Often would I stay To live a blissful hour, forever. ‘Nay. On, on!’ cries Time, and smites with painful goad._

“_They say though, that before the soul is fled From this frail house, old Time, turned kind, will bring, In outstretched arms, those happy hours long dead-- A sheaf of golden moments spent with thee, The tender blossoms of our hopeful spring And, here and there, a scarlet memory._”

McCall’s voice stopped. His long, slender fingers went forward across the table and he sat staring down in front of him. A waiter who had been standing near-by in respectful silence, coughed. The lady at the next table, looking haughtily ahead, swept by with her escort.

“It’s very pretty,” said Hamilton after a moment.

“Yes, I like it,” added Levin. Then with apparent irrelevance, “I suppose you know that Miss Meadows is here, in New York.”

Hamilton betrayed his eagerness in a look.

“No, where is she?”

McCall was still staring at the table.

“She’s staying with a party of Red Cross nurses. Her parents met her in New York, but went back alone. Of course you’ll call on her. I know she’d be glad to see you.”

They walked out of the room together, McCall between them, still absorbed in thought. His mood changed, however, at Reisenweber’s. Opposite them sat a fat man in full-dress, with a chorus girl upon each knee.

He was frankly hugging them and they were as frankly pulling greenbacks out of his pockets and tucking them into their stockings, conveniently rolled.

“Here’s civilization in America at its highest,” said Levin cynically. “The fat man is a manufacturer who has been yelling against the Bolsheviki for destroying the home. He’s a bitter opponent of free love.”

McCall laughed.

“Well, why shouldn’t he be opposed to free love? He has to pay for it, doesn’t he? He looks like a picture by Hogarth--a picture in the Rake’s Progress. Only Death ought to be lurking somewhere about.”

“Oh, he is,” said Levin, “although you can’t see him. Life doesn’t reveal its spectres until the right moment. But we’re all too introspective. A cabaret is frankly a place for enjoyment. We ought to dance.”

“I’d rather just look on,” said Hamilton.

“And I’m going to dance,” said McCall. “Watch me!”

He lurched unsteadily past the fat man and his odalisques to a table where two dazzling blondes--a peroxide and a henna--sat waiting. The next minute he was fox-trotting with the peroxide blonde. The fat man and the two girls rose and went laughing and swaying out of the door. Another officer sat down with the henna blonde. A couple walked by, the woman’s black eyes beckoning to Hamilton, while her escort was looking the other way. The waiter yawned. Hamilton looked at his watch.

“Wow, it’s after three! We’ll have to catch the four o’clock to make reveille and then we won’t get any sleep.”

“Do you still have to stand reveille?” asked Levin.

“Oh, I’ve got a couple of shavetails who take turns at standing it with the company--and for all I know they may leave it to the top-sergeant. But our major’s a little fussy. Doesn’t know the war’s over, and he might kick.”

“Well, you get McCall, and in the meantime I’ll order a round of coffees. That’ll keep you awake until reveille, and then you can sleep.”

Hamilton found McCall making arrangements with the lady in henna, the other officer and the peroxide blonde to visit a little apartment uptown, but dragged him away. McCall refused to drink his coffee, but finally consented to leave and walked out between them to the taxi.

They drove to the Pennsylvania station and Levin saw them to the gates leading to their track.

“Let’s see, what was that address?” asked Hamilton.

“Miss Meadows? Here it is. Better write it down. Got a pencil? All right. Well, so long. Look me up again. Come to see me when you’re in Chicago. Good-night, McCall.”

XV

Hamilton was lying leisurely on his bed, smoking a cigarette and reading a letter from Margaret, when McCall burst into the room.

“Got my order! Got my order!” he shouted, waving a slip of paper. “Hooray! Kaloo! Kalay! Come on, Hamilton, help me pack.”

“Gee, great stuff!” said Hamilton, jumping up. “When did it come?”

“Just now! Hooray! I haven’t packed a thing. I’m going to take my physical exam at eleven and catch the noon train, if I can. It’s half-past nine now.”

“Have you signed your statement that you’re free from indebtedness?”

“Almost forgot. But I can do it and make the train, anyway. Come on, old top, give me a lift!”

Together they hurried out of the room and down the row of wooden barracks. McCall was talking excitedly.

“No more of these damned barracks, all looking alike,” he said. “That’s the worst thing about the camp. Every blamed building looks like every other building. If they’d only make one a little longer than the other. Or even get the lines crooked. Or paint ’em.”

In McCall’s room they found two privates folding an iron cot.

“That’s right, boys. Get all this junk out and sweep the floor when you get through. Here’s a couple of uniforms I won’t need any more. Want ’em? Fine! And here’s a pair of putts. I’ll see you in the office again before I go.”

The soldiers saluted with a relaxed stiffness and broad grins on their faces, turned on their heels and walked out.

“Why did you want to give away your uniforms and putts?” asked Hamilton. “You can use ’em for riding or camping, you know.”

“Riding or camping? Here, hand me those shaving things off that shelf. When do you think I’ll have a chance to go riding? If they ever send me on an assignment where I’ll need putts--such as covering another war--I’ll buy a pair. But, of course, there won’t be any more wars. Let’s see, where’ll I put my socks?”

Hamilton was removing articles from a wooden shelf that extended over the foot of the bed--a few photographs, books, stationery, brush, comb, a soap box, a tobacco pouch, a shoe brush and some face towels. As he picked up one of the volumes, a snapshot, which had been kept between the leaves, fluttered down upon the floor and Hamilton stooped to recover it. It was Dorothy Meadows, standing at the entrance to the hospital in Paris--Dorothy in her nurse’s cloak and bonnet, smiling at him. McCall looked up from his packing.

“_What_ is that?” he asked. “Oh, one of my snapshots.”

“Where’d you get this?” asked Hamilton, his face red from bending.

“In Paris. Took it with her camera. You know she’s been an angel of mercy to us, Hamilton.”

Hamilton’s mind went back to the New York cabaret, where McCall had sat reciting poetry with shining eyes, and an emotion strangely like that of jealousy seized him. He thought of their walk in Luxembourg gardens. Of course it could not be jealousy. Still the feeling persisted and he hardly heard what McCall was saying. If he had not been in love with Margaret, this feeling would be understandable. As it was, it was fantastic. Perhaps McCall had not written the poem to Dorothy.

“Got to get transportation,” said McCall, standing up, after the last strap had been tightened and the last lock turned. “I’ll call up the supply department. Come on!”

They rushed out to the Y. M. C. A., where the nearest telephone was, and McCall disappeared into the booth. He reappeared a few minutes later.

“Sending for it right away. Let’s go back.”

A few minutes later a truck appeared and McCall’s locker trunks and bedding roll were being loaded into it. It seemed very strange. For almost two years they had been together. In the same company at Plattsburg, where they had gotten their commissions together; in the same company at Camp Eustis, where they had drilled rookies; in the same company in France, until casualties had placed each in charge of his own company. They had received their promotions to first lieutenancies and to captaincies on the same day. They had studied together and fought together. Side by side they had stood in muddy trenches. They had tasted the same dangers and hardships, the same hopes and anxieties, the same enthusiasms and pleasures. Now they were to be separated.

McCall was going back to Chicago. In a few days Hamilton was going back to Corinth--and then what would become of their friendship? Parting would sever something from Hamilton’s life. Yes, life was that, a meeting and a parting. One made friends, built up a community of interests, and then the friend moved away or died or grew up into a different being. The next time they met, Hamilton might be engrossed in something else--possibly the details of the Hamilton enterprises and, as conceivably, McCall would be engrossed in his work.

Hamilton had met old schoolmates like that--boys with whom he played football at prep school, boys with whom he had gone on larks, even members of the same club at Harvard. For a few minutes they were always glad to see each other. They recalled old memories. They asked about old friends, almost forgotten, whom neither had seen again. Then they suddenly discovered that they were both bored. Each had his own interests, had become a strange being. It was difficult to pick up old friendships where one had left off.

McCall was chattering on happily:

“There’s a hundred things to do to get away from camp. Coming down with me to the Q. M.’s? I’ll tell you; you be in your room and as soon as I get through I’ll drop in again.”

McCall was swinging rapidly down the road, stopping now and then to shake hands with friends, or to shout “good-bye” excitedly across the road. Hamilton returned to his room. Everything was in order, in case his discharge should come. He could pack within fifteen minutes. He idly went over some reports, ran a brush over his shoes and puttees, and lay down again on his bed. He loosened his coat, took out his letter from Margaret and reread it. Margaret was to sing before the Daughters of the Confederacy and had just been appointed on a committee to welcome the returning soldiers.

Hamilton was dozing away comfortably when McCall burst into the door, a suitcase in either hand.

“Well, so long, Hamilton, I’m going.”

“Just a minute, I’ll go down with you.” Hamilton sprang to his feet.

“Only ten minutes left. All right, your coat’s all right.”

Hamilton took one of the suitcases and together they rushed out of the barracks. They hailed a Q. M. truck, loaded the suitcases onto it, and crowded into the seat next to the driver. At the station stood little knots of soldiers and officers waiting for the train. There was much laughing and talking, buying of newspapers and candy bars at the counters, and a crush at the ticket and baggage offices.

The train was here. Every one made a rush for the door. Last farewells were said, last addresses exchanged. McCall was waving his arms and shaking hands with everyone. There was no time for even a last word. Hamilton wished to say something--something about their friendship, something about the saving of his life in France. But it was too late. McCall was being pushed forward to the train. He found a seat next to the window, opened it and shouted: “So long!” The next minute the train started, the cheering and laughing mingled with the noise of the locomotive gaining momentum, the waving arms and grinning faces receded in the distance.

Hamilton wondered when he would go home, looked around and walked back to his barrack alone.

XVI

Hamilton’s discharge came late the next day and he decided to leave the following morning. He made the rounds of his most intimate friends, wrote a few letters and retired early. He would reach New York by noon, spend the day there, so as to avoid traveling by day as much as possible, and leave at six o’clock for Washington. He would have time to visit the office of the Hamilton Company, see Levin and perhaps even call up Dorothy.

Hamilton left earlier than he had expected and reached New York at eleven o’clock. The city was still in gala mood. There was a committee of women to meet the soldiers with coffee and doughnuts. Hamilton had breakfasted well in camp and expected to eat luncheon shortly, but out of consideration for the plump blonde chairwoman, he managed to gulp down the doughnut and coffee and thank her profusely. A slender, dark girl, evidently Jewish, gave him a package of cigarettes. Hamilton noticed that most of the soldiers, although they had been stuffing on peanut candy and chocolate bars all the way from camp, also took their doughnuts and coffee dutifully.

The streets were still decorated with flags, bunting and signs welcoming the returning soldiers. The many uniforms on the streets, while not enjoying the popularity of a month ago, had not yet become objects of odium. Women, and a few men, still looked with sympathy at soldiers who limped about on crutches or walked about minus an arm.

Hamilton walked leisurely up Broadway, his chest high and his shoulders still squared by custom. The civilians, dodging about, looked pale, round-shouldered and nervous. He peered upward at the tall buildings and felt a glow of pride. He stopped at a cigar store to light a cigarette, watched the men throwing dice, and envied their freedom. It must be splendid not to have to stand reveille, not to have to stand retreat, not to have to eat at a certain hour, not to have to stand or do anything unless one wished to. How happy they must be. Then he suddenly realized that he was one of them, and that though still in uniform he was just as free. He stuck a hand in his pocket in defiance of old military etiquette and in a burst of new-found freedom, thought better of it, withdrew it and walked on.

Hamilton wished he had waited for the noon train and come down with some of the other officers of his regiment. Wandering about New York alone was too big a task for one man. There were so many thoughts he wished to express, so many ideas to exchange. He wondered what McCall would think about the men and women he passed on the streets--the clerks, the girls with short skirts borrowed from the French, the women who smiled because one was in uniform, the business men who looked away for the same reason, the messenger boys, whose admiration and hero worship had outlived the armistice.

Why had he come alone at the last minute? He had planned to come at noon--had practically slipped away from camp. His mind reverted to Dorothy, although he had decided not to see her. Dorothy would be surprised to see him and probably chagrined that it was not McCall. Why had not McCall told him anything about the poem or the snapshot? Still, why should he?

Perhaps after all there was no more between them than between himself and her. McCall was on his way back to Chicago. Perhaps he had called on Dorothy while waiting for his train. Had he come alone to New York in order to be able to spend more time with Dorothy?

No, he would not see her. He would not see her. First, because of the emotional character of their farewell in Paris. In a sentimental vein he might again commit the same kind of folly. She might misconstrue his avowal of friendship for something deeper. Secondly, he would not see her because McCall had written that poem to her. He was not jealous. A ridiculous idea.

He reached the office building in which the Hamilton Company was located and rode up in the elevator to his floor. He walked to the end of the corridor and was turning the knob of the door when he noticed that the lettering was changed. He stepped back, looked about in bewilderment and finally entered. Yes, the office was differently arranged and there was a strange stenographer at the information desk. He had been here too often to mistake the number; still, if they had moved, his father would undoubtedly have told him something about it.

“Could you please tell me where the Hamilton Company is located?” he asked.

The stenographer, fluffy brown-haired and brown-eyed, looked up, smiled and showed a row of white teeth.

“I don’t know. Been here only a month, but the elevator man might know.”

She looked a moment at his uniform.

“You’re a corporal or something, aren’t you? I can tell by the things on your sleeve. I’ve got a gentleman friend who’s a corporal, too.”

“Thank you,” said Hamilton, about to turn away, when a stout gentleman came up behind the information desk.

“Did you inquire about the Hamilton Company, Captain?” he asked. “We moved in after they left, on the second of January.” The gentleman did not know where the company had moved, but referred Hamilton to the office of the building on the top floor.

On the top floor the secretary knew only that the office had been vacated December thirty-first and that no New York forwarding address had been left. All the mail, he added, was being sent to some southern address--Virginia or Carolina--no Corinth, Georgia, that was it.

Hamilton’s mind was in a whirl. Why had the New York office been discontinued? Why had his father not told him about it? He had received a letter from him only a few days ago. The New York office had been opened in 1915, when the rush of war orders had made it advisable to go directly into exporting, instead of dealing through brokers. It had not only saved the brokerage commission (a comparatively small item), but, what was more important, had brought many new orders. Perhaps with the war over, it was no longer needed.

It was nearly twelve now, and Hamilton decided to telephone Levin and eat luncheon with him. He stepped into a cigar store and called up his hotel. Levin had left fifteen minutes before, with a suitcase. They hardly expected him back before night. No, he had not left any instructions. Hamilton hung up the receiver and wondered why he had not thought to wire the night before. This reminded him that he had not yet wired home and he left for the nearest telegraph office where he sent off two messages--one to his mother and one to Margaret. Then he set out in search of a restaurant.

There was a cold look about the restaurants. They were either too large and imposing or two white and busy. He wondered whether he could find anything like the Black Cat in New York. He wished that he had come with some one else and visited several hotels in the hope of finding some one he knew in the lobby.

He was on the point of telephoning a few of his New York acquaintances when he recalled that they were all still in the service. If this were only Paris, he thought. He could sit down in any café and engage in conversation with whomever he pleased, man or woman, without violating the proprieties. It was about four months since he had eaten at the Black Cat with Dorothy. Four whole months.

Why not have luncheon with her? They could recall their experiences in Paris. They might spend the afternoon together. Hamilton remembered the address. He had said it over and over to himself at odd moments. It was only a mile or so away. No, that would be a weakness on his part. That would be an admission of something that he did not wish to face even in his mind. He would simply write her a note, saying that he had been in New York and had not found time to call.