“Of course, I should have three other men to make it sound better—to form a quartette. But you can get the idea. Picture it—a cold, raw night, with the water falling, drizzling; mud and rotting bodies; terrific explosions, like a hundred boiler shops going at once; death and cold and hell all over. Now imagine this as sung by the quartette—“Massa’s in de Col’, Col’ Groun’.”
In a plaintive, vibrant tenor, Williams sang again:
“Massa’s in de col’, col’ groun’,
An’ we’s all gwine be with him in de mawnin’.”
IX
Promptly at noon, Friday, Hamilton was ringing the bell at the nurses’ home. Meadows, enveloped in a blue cloak, opened the door for him.
“Right on time,” she laughed, extending her hand. “Do you wish to come in? All right, then, we’ll go ahead.”
Hamilton wondered what Meadows thought of his conduct at the reception—his sudden leaving—his angry denunciation of the colored race—as they walked together to the curb.
Through the stark trees a bright December sun was shining. Hundreds of students of the Sorbonne, a few blocks away, were on the streets, coming from their morning classes, talking, shouting, laughing, singing. Hamilton was about to signal a cab.
“Oh, let’s walk,” said Meadows impulsively. “It’s such a beautiful day.