They
were gone when my waiter came. I asked him who the planters were. He
didn't know their names; only knew them as rich planters who often
visited the cafe. I left the cafe and tried to find them, but they had
disappeared. And I stood on the curb watching the iridescent ooze of the
sewage in a runnel of the street seep along like a sick snake.
Creole beauties, negroes, planters, roughs, gamblers, passed me. The
streets were noisy with trucks. The air was hot and lifeless. The scene
about me suspired like the brilliant and deadly scales of a poisonous
reptile. I was sick at heart. I was overcome with terrible loneliness. I
was in love with Dorothy and I was Zoe's brother. I was caught in this
great dramatic ordeal of America without any fault on my part. What
should I do? Yes, my ambition. To get rich. That was labor enough. And
there was my farm back in Illinois. Why was I here after all? Was it
some dream? I would wake myself. I would return to my place, my duty.
What else could I do? I went to the wharf to find a boat to St. Louis.
CHAPTER XIX
I was listless all the way home. Passing through Jacksonville I seemed
to sense a coldness in the manner of some of the people. Even where
there was a smile and a bow, to which I could take no exception, I
interpreted an attitude which said: "The Englishman: the fellow who
killed Lamborn.
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