, he climbed down to
the dusty road-bed.

The negroes who had ridden with him were sprawled about him on the
ground; one of them lay sleeping, face up, in the sunlight. The train
had evidently been there for some time, and there were no signs of an
immediate departure. He bought some oranges of a little, bowlegged
black boy, and sat down on a log to eat them and to give up his mind
to enjoyment. The sun was hot upon him, and his thoughts were vague
and drowsy. He was glad that he was alive, glad to be back once more
among familiar scenes. 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.

"'Most made the mistake of ma life," he chuckled, "stickin' to that
ol' train foheveh. 'T isn't the right way at, all foh Gideon to come
home."

The river was not far away. He could catch the dancing blue of it from
time to time in ragged vista, and for this beacon he steered directly.
His coat was heavy on his arm, his thin patent-leather ties pinched
and burned and demanded detours around swampy places, but he was
happy.

As he went along, his plan perfected itself. He would get into loose
shoes again, old ones, if money could buy them, and old clothes, too.
The bull-briers snatching at his tailored splendor suggested that.

He laughed when the Florida partridge, a small quail, whirred up from
under his feet; he paused to exchange aff