From then on until he had you completely subjugated he was always in or out of your room, ubiquitous and garrulous, though his manner gradually moved northward as his raiment improved, until at last when he had bled you until you began to learn better he was calling you Quentin or whatever, and when you saw him next he'd be wearing a cast-off Brooks suit and a hat with a Princeton club I forget which band that someone had given him and which he was pleasantly and unshakably convinced was a part of Abe Lincoln's military sash.
Someone spread the story years ago, when he first appeared around college from wherever he came from, that he was a graduate of the divinity school.
And when he came to understand what it meant he was so taken with it that he began to retail the story himself, until at last he must have come to believe he really had.
Anyway he related long pointless anecdotes of his undergraduate days, speaking familiarly of dead and departed professors by their first names, usually incorrect ones.
But he had been guide mentor and friend to unnumbered crops of innocent and lonely freshmen, and I suppose that with all his petty chicanery and hypocrisy he stank no higher in heaven's nostrils than any other.
"Haven't seen you in three-four days," he said, staring at me from his still military aura. "You been sick?"
"No. I've been all right.
Working, I reckon.
I've seen you, though."
"Yes?"
"In the parade the other day."
"Oh, that.
Yes, I was there.
I dont care nothing about that sort of thing, you understand, but the boys likes to have me with them, the vet'runs does.
Ladies wants all the old vet'runs to turn out, you know. So I has to oblige them."
"And on that Wop holiday too," I said.
"You were obliging the W. C. T. U. then, I reckon." "That?
I was doing that for my son-in-law.
He aims to get a job on the city forces.
Street cleaner.
I tells him all he wants is a broom to sleep on.
You saw me, did you?"
"Both times. Yes."
"I mean, in uniform. How'd I look?"
"You looked fine.
You looked better than any of them.
They ought to make you a general, Deacon."
He touched my arm, lightly, his hand that worn, gentle quality of niggers' hands.
"Listen.
This aint for outside talking.
I dont mind telling you because you and me's the same folks, come long and short." He leaned a little to me, speaking rapidly, his eyes not looking at me. "I've got strings out, right now.
Wait till next year.
Just wait.
Then see where I'm marching.
I wont need to tell you how I'm fixing it; I say, just wait and see, my boy." He looked at me now and clapped me lightly on the shoulder and rocked back on his heels, nodding at me. "Yes, sir. I didn't turn Democrat three years ago for nothing.
My son-in-law on the city; me-- Yes, sir.
If just turning Democrat'll make that son of a bitch go to work….
And me: just you stand on that corner yonder a year from two days ago, and see."
"I hope so.
You deserve it, Deacon.
And while I think about it--" I took the letter from my pocket. "Take this around to my room tomorrow and give it to Shreve.
He'll have something for you.
But not till tomorrow,mind."
He took the letter and examined it.
"It's sealed up."
"Yes.
And it's written inside, Not good until tomorrow."
"H'm," he said.
He looked at the envelope, his mouth pursed. "Something for me, you say?"
"Yes.