XIII
It was the second week of their stay at Camp Mills. Robert’s father had returned to Corinth on the third day after the return of the troops. He had come with the idea of bringing Robert home with him, having forgotten in his enthusiasm that the troops would first have to be discharged. Father and son had spent an evening in New York, dining together at the hotel, strolling leisurely down Fifth Avenue, visiting several cafés, principally talking. There were a thousand questions to ask and a thousand answers to make.
Hamilton was packing things into a wooden box, when McCall came running into the room.
“What’re you doing?” asked McCall. “Want a hand? Oh, I see, packing away the relics of the World War to show your children and your children’s children.”
“That’s right,” said Hamilton, wiping his brow with his sleeve. “Hand me that gas mask! That’s it. Now for the books. Some I had with me. The rest I picked up in Paris.”
“What’s the idea of packing now? You don’t expect to get out so soon, do you?”
“Oh, I might as well do it now. Get it over with. All right, now give me that hammer.”
“Have you seen the new order?” asked McCall. “What do you think of applying for appointment to the regular army?”
“Do I look crazy?” He savagely hammered the last nail into position and arose. “Now, that’s over.”
“But there are some fellows who have applied.” McCall stretched himself on the bunk and hunched up his knees comfortably. “There’s McMasters and Dowling. And I’ve been undecided about it.”