“Getting old, I suppose.”
“Oh, have I told you? We’ve got another captain in our set,” asked Margaret suddenly. “Who do you think? Howard Pinkney. He got his commission just about the time I got that awful letter telling me you were wounded. I’ll never forget how I felt.”
“Pinkney?”
“Oh, this town is full of ’em,” the elder Hamilton laughed, with the faintest suggestion of irony in his voice. “Captains and majors.”
“Oh, no, he’s a real captain. He showed me his commission. He’s captain of our home guards, and he says it’s the same rank as captain in the infantry or artillery. Is it?”
“Well, that’s a rather embarrassing question. But perhaps we could say that it’s not exactly the same thing, although it is very nearly.”
“Oh, of course, you did the real fighting. It was wonderful how you risked your life and I’m proud of you, oh, ever so proud. I’ve had a service flag in the window ever since you left, with only one star—for you. Howard wanted me to have two stars, but, of course, he stayed at home. He’s one of the organizers now of the Trick Track Tribe. Or is that a secret, Mr. Hamilton? He’ll be asking Robert to join anyway.”
“It’s probably a pretty open secret.”
“Trick Track Tribe? What an odd name. Trick Track. It sounds like the cocking of an old-fashioned musket. Trick Track.”
“That’s just what it’s supposed to be. It’s a wonderful thing. It’s to revive the old Southern chivalry and maintain the superiority of the white race and promote Americanism.”