“Now the starry-eyed leftwing boys in Washington maintain that the colored brethren have made just as good a showing as white machinists in punctuality, discipline, and quality of work done. But I am authorized to state that Webb and Ackley and Dunc have arrived at an entirely different conclusion, and at Wargate’s we shall see from now on an economic picture in which there will be a lot less of grinning slaty faces!”

(Neil looked at Ackley, in whose forest camp he had had so lively a party, two weeks ago. Ackley and his father seemed self-conscious, but they were not contradicting anything.)

“So, gentlemen, I have not given you the traditional comic Hy-Syne, because those of us who faced the enemy guns cannot feel very comic until we are assured that you are going to preserve for us what we fought to preserve for you—the pure, clean, square-dealing, enterprising, freely-competitive America of the Founding Fathers!”

* * * * *

They pounded their tankards on the tables and broke their clay pipes in applause.

Neil was thinking, “This is it. Come on. That’s the warden and the chaplain coming.”

Dr. Drover was asking for silence, to thank the speaker, when Neil stood up. He spoke as unemotionally as an official making a routine announcement, and they all listened. Nice, sensible boy, fine future, young Kingsblood—you know, in the Second National—son-in-law of Mort Beehouse.

“I was junior to Major Aldwick as an officer,” Neil said, “but I must correct him.”

He saw the eyes of Rodney shrewd upon him.

“Gentlemen, what Aldwick said about Negro soldiers was half fireworks and half fake. It was poisonous nonsense.”

Rod was rising to interrupt, but Neil insisted, “You’ve had your chance, Rod.” Dr. Drover made sounds like a chairman, but Dr. Henry Sparrock yelped, “Let the boy talk!” Through the room there were mutters of “Give him a chance,” and a more sinister “This sounds interesting!”

But Robert Kingsblood, on his feet but hunched over, was wailing, “Shut up, Neil! Oh, God!” as Neil lumbered on:

“Aldwick never mentioned Negro gallantry, nor the seditious efforts of officers and non-coms from the Deep South to corrupt our army by prejudice. I wouldn’t expect that, from a political climber. But I will say that his statements about Dr. Davis and Dr. Brewster and Miss Concord are plain untrue—and he didn’t even have their names right. I’m ashamed of myself for having sat and listened, because–-”

Robert’s agonized voice—perhaps he did not know that he spoke aloud—was beseeching, “Don’t do it, boy!”

“–-because,” Neil went on, “I have some of what you call ‘Negro blood’ myself.”

They were paralyzed and still.

“I am only one thirty-second Negro, but according to the standards of Lucian Firelock and his friend Mr. Wilbur Feathering–-”

Lucian’s voice was even: “No friend of mine, Neil!”