At the station he was slightly autocratic with the nigra porters. Arriving at five-thirty in the morning, he spent half an hour calling goddam over the telephone wires till he got some action. Rancid from their sleep, a group of drowsy nigras turned up in dungarees. They fumbled around with his baggage, heavy with his impedimenta and Lucinda’s poems. —Goddam it, get a move on, Captain Motes called. Are you still waiting for John Brown? —Yassuh, the nigras said in chorus.
