Ben' wid thirteen udder boys, white an' colored, all marchin' away
togedder. Fo' uv them boys is already back home; three, we heah, is on
de way back, but six uv yo' brave comrades, Brudder Pack, is sleepin'
now in France, an' ain't never goin' to come home no mo'. When we honors
you, we honors them all, de libin' an' de daid, de white an' de black,
who fought togedder fuh one country, fuh one flag."

Gasps, sobs from the line of black folk, interrupted the speaker. Just
then a shriveled old negress gave a scream, and came running and half
stumbling out of the line, holding out her arms to the barrel-chested
soldier on the gang-plank. She seized him and began shrieking:

"Bless Gawd! my son's done come home! Praise de Lawd! Bless His holy
name!" Here her laudation broke into sobbing and choking and laughing,
and she squeezed herself to her son.

Tump patted her bony black form.

"I's heah, Mammy," he stammered uncertainly. "I's come back, Mammy."

Half a dozen other negroes caught the joyful hysteria. They began a
religious shouting, clapping their hands, flinging up their arms,
shrieking.

One of the drummers grunted:

"Good God! all this over a nigger getting back!"

At the extreme end of the dark line a tall cream-colored girl wept
silently. As Peter Siner stood blinking his eyes, he saw the octoroon's