Trafalgar Square, Bridgetown, Barbados, with its statue of Nelson
I was on the point of abandoning the animal when I caught sight of a man climbing the trail far ahead of us, the first person I had seen in more than an hour. I shouted, and for some time fancied he had dashed off into the wilderness out of fear. Then a break in the vegetation showed him again, and this time he halted. We reached him at last, a stodgy negro youth in the remnants of hat, shirt, and trousers who stood at attention, like a soldier, at the extreme edge of the trail, an expression between fear and respectful attention on his stupid black countenance.
“How far is it to Roseau?” I panted.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, seeming to poise himself for a dive into the jungle void behind him.
“How many miles to Roseau?” I repeated, “five or ten or—”
“Yes, sir,” he reiterated, shifting his mammoth bare feet uneasily.
“I want to know the distance to the city,” I cried, unwisely raising my voice in my haste and thereby all but causing him to bolt. “Can I make it in six hours?”
“Yes, sir,” he answered, quickly. Then, evidently seeing that I was not pleased with the answer, he added hastily, “N—No, sir.”
“Est-ce qu’ on peut le faire en six heures?” I hazarded, but he seemed to understand French even less than English and stared at me mutely. The brilliant idea of wasting no more time passed through the place my mind should have been. I snatched out my note-book and pencil.
“What’s your name?” I asked. “Can you write?”