Slowly he swung back on two legs of his chair, caught the rungs again
with the projecting soles, turned his eyes to the ceiling, closed them,
and set himself to imagining the station at Pleasantville. The rout
was complete.
Perry wheeled and faced me. The hand was lowered slowly; four fingers
disappeared and one long one, one quivering one, remained, a whip with
which to chastise the prisoner at the bar.
"Mark Hope," he began, in a deep, rich, resonant voice, "we welcome you
home. We have come down from the valley, fourteen mile through the
blazin' noonday sun, fourteen mile over wind-swept roads, that you,
when agin you step on the soil of our beloved county, may step into
lovin' hands, outstretched to meet you and bid you welcome. Welcome
home--thrice welcome--agin I say, welcome!"
[Illustration: "Welcome home--thrice welcome!"]
Both of the orator's hands swung upward and outward, and he looked
intently at the ceiling. He seemed prepared to catch me as I leaped
from a second-story window. The pause as he stood there braced to
receive the body of the returning soldier as it hurtled at him, gave
Isaac Bolum an opportunity to be magnanimous.
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