II
But young Robert Saunders could not hear him. He was at that moment climbing a high board fence which severed the dusk above his head. He conquered it at last and sliding downward his trousers evinced reluctance, then accepting the gambit accompanied him with a ripping sound. He sprawled in damp grass feeling a thin shallow fire across his young behind, and said Damn, regaining his feet and disjointing his hip trying to see down his back.
Ain’t that hell, he remarked to the twilight. I have rotten luck. It’s all your fault, too, for not telling me, he thought, gaining a vicarious revenge on all sisters. He picked up the object he had dropped in falling and crossed the rectory lawn through dew, toward the house. There was a light in a heretofore unused upper room and his heart sank. Had he gone to bed this early? Then he saw silhouetted feet on the balustrade of the porch and the red eye of a cigarette. He sighed with relief. That must be him.
He mounted the steps, saying: “Hi, Donald.”
“Hi, Colonel,” answered the one sitting there. Approaching, he discerned soldier clothes. That’s him. Now I’ll see, he thought exultantly, snapping on a flash light and throwing its beam full on the man’s face. Aw, shucks. He was becoming thoroughly discouraged. Did anyone ever have such luck? There must be a cabal against him.
“You ain’t got no scar,” he stated with dejection. “You ain’t even Donald, are you?”
“You guessed it, bub. I ain’t even Donald. But say, how about turning that searchlight some other way?”
He snapped off the light in weary disillusion. He burst out: “They won’t tell me nothing. I just want to know what his scar looks like but they won’t tell me nothing about it. Say, has he gone to bed?”
“Yes, he’s gone to bed. This ain’t a good time to see his scar.”
“How about tomorrow morning?” hopefully. “Could I see it then?”
“I dunno. Better wait till then.”
“Listen,” he suggested with inspiration, “I tell you what: tomorrow about eight when I am going to school you kind of get him to look out of the window and I’ll be passing and I’ll see it. I asked Sis, but she wouldn’t tell me nothing.”
“Who is Sis, bub?”
“She’s just my sister. Gosh, she’s mean. If I’d seen his scar I’d a told her now, wouldn’t I?”
“You bet. What’s your sister’s name?”
“Name’s Cecily Saunders, like mine only mine’s Robert Saunders. You’ll do that, won’t you?”
“Oh … Cecily. … Sure, you leave it to me, Colonel.”
He sighed with relief, yet still lingered. “Say, how many soldiers has he got here?”
“About one and a half, bub.”
“One and a half? Are they live ones?”
“Well, practically.”
“How can you have one and a half soldiers if they are live ones?”
“Ask the war department. They know how to do it.”
He pondered briefly. “Gee, I wish we could get some soldiers at our house. Do you reckon we could?”
“Why, I expect you could.”
“Could? How?” he asked eagerly.
“Ask your sister. She can tell you.”
“Aw, she won’t tell me.”
“Sure she will. You ask her.”
“Well, I’ll try,” he agreed without hope, yet still optimistic. “Well, I guess I better be going. They might be kind of anxious about me,” he explained, descending the steps. “Goodbye, mister,” he added politely.
“So long, Colonel.”
I’ll see his scar tomorrow, he thought with elation. I wonder if Sis does know how to get us a soldier? She don’t know much but maybe she does know that. But girls don’t never know nothing, so I ain’t going to count on it. Anyway I’ll see his scar tomorrow.
Tobe’s white jacket looming around the corner of the house gleamed dully in the young night and as young Robert mounted the steps toward the yellow rectangle of the front door Tobe’s voice said:
“Whyn’t you come on to yo’ supper? Yo’ mommer gwine tear yo’ hair and my hair bofe out if you late like this. She say fer you to clean up befo’ you goes to de dinin’ room: I done drawed you some nice water in de baff room. Run ’long now. I tell ’em you here.”
He paused only to call through his sister’s door: “I’m going to see it tomorrow. Yaaaah!” Then soaped and hungry he clattered into the dining room, accomplishing an intricate field maneuver lest his damaged rear be exposed. He ignored his mother’s cold stare.
“Robert Saunders, where have you been?”
“Mamma, there’s a soldier there says we can get one too.”
“One what?” asked his father through his cigar smoke.
“A soldier.”
“Soldier?”
“Yes, sir. That one says so.”
“That one what?”
“That soldier where Donald is. He says we can get a soldier, too.”
“How get one?”
“He wouldn’t tell me. But he says that Sis knows how to get us one.”
Mr. and Mrs. Saunders looked at each other above young Robert’s oblivious head as he bent over his plate spooning food into himself.