“You wouldn’t make a hit at a Peace Conference,” laughed Leon. “You’d better let me fix you up, Crail. I’m sorry I made such a mess of you. I was in a beast of a temper when you came along. Come on over to the stand here. Got a washcloth or something?”
The next ten minutes were spent in repairs. Monty discovered a bottle of witch hazel, presumably the property of Standart, and they made liberal use of it. A lump as large as a pigeon’s egg graced the back of Leon’s head, its presence making itself known when he leaned against the chair. However, it didn’t show unless you looked for it. Monty’s wounds were far more spectacular, although when the blood had been cleaned from his lip, and his other abrasions and swellings well bathed, and he had slicked down his hair with a brush, he looked fairly respectable once more. And presently the two were comfortably seated by the window, and were talking as intimately as old friends.
They had at least this much in common: both were new boys and felt strange, and both agreed that this part of the country in which they found themselves left much to be desired. Leon compared it to the south and Monty to the west, and neither comparison was favorable to this particular portion of New England. Leon, it seemed, came from New Orleans, and an awkward moment ensued when he casually announced himself a Creole. Monty gazed at him in a surprised manner. “A Creole!” he ejaculated. “But—but—I thought——”
“What?” demanded Leon stiffly.
“Nothing,” replied Monty confusedly. “I—I never met a Creole before.” But he continued to gaze with misgiving at Leon’s hair, which, although straight as his own, was undeniably black.
“You might as well say it,” challenged Leon. “You thought a Creole was a nigger, didn’t you? Most of you Yankees do think that, I reckon. It just shows what an ignorant lot you all are!”
“I’m not a Yankee,” defended Monty. “I was born in Indiana.”
“That’s what you thought, though,” sneered the other. “Now, wasn’t it?”
“N-no, not exactly. I guess I had a sort of notion that a Creole was something like a mulatto or a quadroon. I’m sorry if I said anything——”
“Oh, you northerners all have that crazy idea,” responded Leon, contemptuously. “A Creole is a person born in Louisiana of French and Spanish blood. We have the best blood in America in our veins, as anyone knows who has read history.”