A little uncertain of the outcome, the colonel waited for the other to
make some sign of recognition. Not in twenty years had male members
of these two families faced each other in peace. Goree's eyelids
puckered as he strained his blurred sight toward this visitor, and
then he smiled serenely.
"Have you brought Stella and Lucy over to play?" he said calmly.
"Do you know me, Yancey?" asked Coltrane.
"Of course I do. You brought me a whip with a whistle in the end."
So he had--twenty-four years ago; when Yancey's father was his best
friend.
Goree's eyes wandered about the room. The colonel understood. "Lie
still, and I'll bring you some," said he. There was a pump in the yard
at the rear, and Goree closed his eyes, listening with rapture to the
click of its handle, and the bubbling of the falling stream. Coltrane
brought a pitcher of the cool water, and held it for him to drink.
Presently Goree sat up--a most forlorn object, his summer suit of flax
soiled and crumpled, his discreditable head tousled and unsteady. He
tried to wave one of his hands toward the colonel.
"Ex-excuse--everything, will you?" he said. "I must have drunk too
much whiskey last night, and gone to bed on the table." His brows
knitted into a puzzled frown.
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