“That sounds pretty ambitious,” laughed Robert. “I really didn’t know the white race was in danger. But if the Trick Tracks can do all that, I’m for them.”
Now the car was rounding a corner and the next minute the Hamilton residence appeared at the end of a row of tall trees. There were the familiar pillars, rising from the floor of the porch to the cornice; the little grilled window just over the door, looking out from the landing on the stairs and through which Hamilton had often peered as a boy; the porch swing; the green shutters, breaking up the mass of white; the lattice under the porch, behind which Hamilton had often prowled, playing it was a bandit’s cave. The grass was as green and the vines clambered as thickly about the sides of the home as his memory had pictured.
“Your room, dear, is just the way you left it,” remarked Mrs. Hamilton as the car drove up the path with a scream of the siren.
They dismounted, George springing down in time to open the door and then bringing up the rear with the suitcases. Robert had expected to see the colored servants at the door—Mammy Chloe, who baked memorial corn fritters and candied yams, and her two daughters, Clorabelle and Susy May (sometimes facetiously called Chlorine by Robert), the housemaids, and Sam, a white-haired black of uncertain age who looked after the horses, trimmed the grass and otherwise assisted George. But only Mammy Chloe appeared, in her best apron, a clean, white kerchief around her head, rocking her fat sides in happiness.
“Lor’ bless us if it ain’t Genril Robert hisself.”
“Only captain so far, Mammy Chloe,” Robert corrected her, as he took her hands in his and looked down at her. “Have you got any of those corn fritters ready for me? I’m sure hungry.” This tribute to her culinary skill pleased her prodigiously.
“Corn fritters ain’t nothing to what I done fix for you all. An’ I won’t tell you what they is. You jes’ wait till come dinner. My lan’ sakes, what all them Huns do to you? You wait! You old Mammy Chloe get you fat again, so Miss Margaret won’t know you.”
After George had deposited the suitcases in his room and Mrs. Hamilton had kissed Robert and closed the door gently behind her, Robert sank down in his chair. He was tired and warm. He had almost forgotten about his wound, yet the simple matter of traveling for thirty-six hours was telling on him. He slowly unbuttoned his coat, unfastened his puttees and unlaced his shoes. It would be a good half-hour before dinner.
He removed a cigarette from his pocket, lit it and began looking about the room. It was exactly as he had left it. The same high-ceilinged room, with its friendly ivory woodwork; the same inviting bay windows, half hidden by vines, with the circular window seats; the same rosewood furniture. In the center of one wall was the fireplace and on either side the bookcases lined with the old textbooks and his favorite volumes. Home again.
Robert arose, undressed and slipped into his bathrobe. He walked about the room to verify the presence of certain objects. Yes, even his class pipe was there. He removed his wrist watch and laid it on the dressing table. There would just be time enough for a shower.