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 crum‘pled, 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.
“Out with the boys a while?” asked Coltrane kindly.
“No, I went nowhere. I haven’t had a dollar to spend in the last two months. Struck the demijohn too often. I reckon, as usual.”
Colonel Coltrane touched him on the shoulder.
“A little while ago, Yancey,” he began, “you asked me if I had brought Stella and Lucy over to play. You weren’t quite awake then, and must have been dreaming you were a boy again. You are awake now, and I want you to listen to me. I have come from Stella and Lucy to their old playmate, and to my old friend’s son. They know that I am going to bring you home with me, and you will find them as ready with a welcome as they were
