“Well, what do you know about that?” Burnham exclaimed. “And me who wouldn’t have told even Gerty! Did any one—”
“No, no, it’s all right! No one else understood. And I’m glad you know.”
“ ’N’ that’s why I said what I did about going with you to hell or anywhere else. I ain’t the only one, Captain. There’s Morgan and Jones and Petitvalle and Isaacs and all the rest of C Company that knows, who’d fight to go along, too. Oh, it would be a nice little family party!” And Burnham laughed gaily.
Well, Stacey had said to Phil months ago that this was the one exploit of which he was proud, but he had said so haughtily, with his heart full of bitterness. Just now his heart was calm, as though cleansed. He was almost happy. Yet he could hardly have accounted for his state of mind, even had he cared to try. It was not, certainly, that his vanity was flattered. Perhaps it was, in part, that when Stacey had related the episode to Philip Blair his defiance of the machine was first in his thoughts, while now the stress was on the human results of that defiance. Perhaps Burnham’s simple assertion of loyalty released Stacey from his obsessing perception of greed, greed everywhere.
But the noise outside had increased. Rolling waves of sound entered.
“What in hell is going on?” Burnham exclaimed. “Tell me, Captain! You know all right.”
“Well,” said Stacey doubtfully, but thinking it on the whole better not to have the invalid aggravated by unsatisfied curiosity, “there’s been a lot of race trouble here lately. Just now it seems to be mostly about some negro—name of Brown—said to have assaulted a woman. He’s shut up in the court-house jail, I believe. Sounds as though some sort of demonstration—”
But at this moment a scattered crackling sound broke out in the distance. Burnham sat up quickly, and Stacey crossed to the window and looked out.
“Some sort of demonstration?” said Burnham. “Some sort of riot! That’s shooting.”
Stacey nodded, pulled down the window sash, and came back to his chair.