Down the length of the train he saw white
passengers from the Pullmans restlessly pacing up and down, getting
into their cars and out of them, consulting watches, attaching
themselves with gesticulatory expostulation to various officials; but
their impatience found no echo in his thought. What was the hurry?
There was plenty of time. It was sufficient to have come to his own
land; the actual walls of home could wait. The delay was pleasant,
with its opportunity for drowsy sunning, its relief from the grimy
monotony of travel. He glanced at the orange-colored "Jim Crow" with
distaste, and inspiration, dawning slowly upon him, swept all other
thought before it in its great and growing glory.
A brakeman passed, and Gideon leaped to his feet and pursued him.
"Misteh, how long yo'-all reckon this train goin' to be?"
"About an hour."
The question had been a mere matter of form. Gideon had made up his
mind, and if he had been told that they started in five minutes he
would not have changed it. He climbed back into the car for his coat
and his hat, and then almost furtively stole down the steps again and
slipped quietly into the palmetto scrub.
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