No one knew him;
indeed, he was naturally enough mistaken for a prosperous gambler, a
not unflattering supposition. In the yard, after the train pulled out,
he saw his private car under a glaring arc light, and grinned to see
it left behind.
He spent the night pleasantly in a noisy game of high-low-jack, and
the next morning slept more soundly than he had slept for weeks,
hunched upon a wooden bench in the boxlike station of a North Carolina
junction. The express would have brought him to Jacksonville in
twenty-four hours; the journey, as he took it, boarding any local that
happened to be going south, and leaving it for meals or sometimes for
sleep or often as the whim possessed him, filled five happy days.
There he took a night train, and dozed from Jacksonville until a
little north of New Smyrna.
He awoke to find it broad daylight, and the car half empty. The train
was on a siding, with news of a freight wreck ahead. Gideon stretched
himself, and looked out of the window, and emotion seized him. For all
his journey the South had seemed to welcome him, but here at last was
the country he knew.
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