With increasing
frequency, he would notice the old Negro pause in his work, as though
trying to identify something too subtle for his senses, and then shake
his head in bewilderment.
One afternoon in early October--just about a year ago--he had been
reclining in a chair on the west veranda, smoking a cigar and trying to
re-create, for his companion, a mental picture of an Indian camp as he
had seen it in Wyoming in the middle '90's, when Sergeant Williamson
came out from the house, carrying a pair of the Colonel's field-boots
and a polishing-kit. Unaware of the Colonel's presence, he set down his
burden, squatted on the floor and began polishing the boots, humming
softly to himself. Then he must have caught a whiff of the Colonel's
cigar. Raising his head, he saw the Colonel, and made as though to pick
up the boots and polishing equipment.
"Oh, that's all right, Sergeant," the Colonel told him. "Carry on with
what you're doing. There's room enough for both of us here."
"Yessuh; thank yo', suh." The old ex-sergeant resumed his soft humming,
keeping time with the brush in his hand.
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