Beautiful Creole heiress.
Steamboat race.
Captain, they are gaining.
I will not be beaten.
Out of wood.
Use the bacon she said proudly.
There was a terrific explosion.
He got her as she sank the third time and swam to shore.
They powder in front of the window, smacking their lips at you.
For old men better maybe.
Who gets the business there?
Bury them all above ground.
Water two feet down.
Rots them.
Why not?
All big jobs.
Italy.
Carrara and Rome.
Yet Brutus is an hon-orable man.
What’s a Creole?
French and Spanish.
Has she any nigger blood?
Ask Cardiac?
The car paused briefly at the car-shed, in sight of its stabled brothers.
Then it moved reluctantly past the dynamic atmosphere of the Power and Light Company, wheeling bluntly into the gray frozen ribbon of Hatton Avenue, running gently up hill near its end into the frore silence of the Square.
Ah, Lord!
Well do I remember.
The old man offered me the whole piece for $1,000 three days after I arrived.
Millionaire today if —
The car passed the Tuskegee on its eighty-yard climb into the Square.
The fat slick worn leather-chairs marshalled between a fresh-rubbed gleaming line of brass spittoons squatted massively on each side of the entry door, before thick sheets of plate-glass that extended almost to the sidewalks with indecent nearness.
Many a fat man’s rump upon the leather.
Like fish in a glass case.
Travelling man’s wet chewed cigar, spit-limp on his greasy lips.
Staring at all the women.
Can’t look back long.
Gives advantage.
A negro bellboy sleepily wafted a gray dust-cloth across the leather.
Within, before the replenished crackle-dance of the wood-fire, the nightclerk sprawled out in the deep receiving belly of a leather divan.
The car reached the Square, jolted across the netting of north-south lines, and came to a halt on the north side, facing east.
Scurfing a patch away from the glazed window, Gant looked out.
The Square in the wan-gray frozen morning walled round him with frozen unnatural smallness.
He felt suddenly the cramped mean fixity of the Square: this was the one fixed spot in a world that writhed, evolved, and changed constantly in his vision, and he felt a sick green fear, a frozen constriction about his heart because the centre of his life now looked so shrunken.
He got very definitely the impression that if he flung out his arms they would strike against the walls of the mean three-and-four-story brickbuilt buildings that flanked the Square raggedly.
Anchored to earth at last, he was hit suddenly by the whole cumulation of sight and movement, of eating, drinking, and acting that had gathered in him for two months.
The limitless land, wood, field, hill, prairie, desert, mountain, the coast rushing away below his eyes, the ground that swam before his eyes at stations, the remembered ghosts of gumbo, oysters, huge Frisco seasteaks, tropical fruits swarmed with the infinite life, the ceaseless pullulation of the sea.
Here only, in his unreal-reality, this unnatural vision of what he had known for twenty years, did life lose its movement, change, color.
The Square had the horrible concreteness of a dream.
At the far southeastern edge he saw his shop: his name painted hugely in dirty scaly white across the brick near the roof: W.
O.