“Well, so long, Hamilton, I’m going.”
“Just a minute, I’ll go down with you.” Hamilton sprang to his feet.
“Only ten minutes left. All right, your coat’s all right.”
Hamilton took one of the suitcases and together they rushed out of the barracks. They hailed a Q. M. truck, loaded the suitcases onto it, and crowded into the seat next to the driver. At the station stood little knots of soldiers and officers waiting for the train. There was much laughing and talking, buying of newspapers and candy bars at the counters, and a crush at the ticket and baggage offices.
The train was here. Every one made a rush for the door. Last farewells were said, last addresses exchanged. McCall was waving his arms and shaking hands with everyone. There was no time for even a last word. Hamilton wished to say something—something about their friendship, something about the saving of his life in France. But it was too late. McCall was being pushed forward to the train. He found a seat next to the window, opened it and shouted: “So long!” The next minute the train started, the cheering and laughing mingled with the noise of the locomotive gaining momentum, the waving arms and grinning faces receded in the distance.
Hamilton wondered when he would go home, looked around and walked back to his barrack alone.
XVI
Hamilton’s discharge came late the next day and he decided to leave the following morning. He made the rounds of his most intimate friends, wrote a few letters and retired early. He would reach New York by noon, spend the day there, so as to avoid traveling by day as much as possible, and leave at six o’clock for Washington. He would have time to visit the office of the Hamilton Company, see Levin and perhaps even call up Dorothy.
Hamilton left earlier than he had expected and reached New York at eleven o’clock. The city was still in gala mood. There was a committee of women to meet the soldiers with coffee and doughnuts. Hamilton had breakfasted well in camp and expected to eat luncheon shortly, but out of consideration for the plump blonde chairwoman, he managed to gulp down the doughnut and coffee and thank her profusely. A slender, dark girl, evidently Jewish, gave him a package of cigarettes. Hamilton noticed that most of the soldiers, although they had been stuffing on peanut candy and chocolate bars all the way from camp, also took their doughnuts and coffee dutifully.
The streets were still decorated with flags, bunting and signs welcoming the returning soldiers. The many uniforms on the streets, while not enjoying the popularity of a month ago, had not yet become objects of odium. Women, and a few men, still looked with sympathy at soldiers who limped about on crutches or walked about minus an arm.