"So I am Hayward Graham, son of Patricia Schmidt, daughter of Cindy—nothing, daughter of Gumbo—nothing."
"Guinea Gumbo," corrected his mother.
"Oh, I beg my distinguished ancestor's pardon for presuming to credit him with only one name. A gentleman with his record ought to have as many as Kaiser Bill," drawled Graham sarcastically. Then with better humour he said to his mother, "And will you please to inform me from which of your ancestors you inherited that name of Patricia?"
"Mammy named me that for her old mistis."
* * * * *
Graham stood for awhile looking at the blank wall. Then he spoke as if he had settled his problem.
"Yes I'm a negro—no doubt about that; and a negro I'll be from to-morrow morning."
"Why, honey, you are not going to lower yourself to—"
"No, no. I'm not going to lower myself to anything; but I'm going to go with my own crowd, where I'll not be insulted by people who are no better than I am. I got along very well at college, but these people here are different. I'll show 'em. I'll go to the war, and I'll get as much glory out of it as any of 'em. My father was a soldier, and his father died in battle: I rather guess I can't stay out of it. Good night, mummer."
And he took himself off to bed.