“I’ll stay,” he said, and the story and all his purpose wobbled and grew black.... He mustn’t forget. He mustn’t fall.... So he stood there holding fast to the ticket-shelf, which he could not feel—held and held, and the train clattered, grew silent, and it was dark.
“Where’s your servant?”
Morning’s lips moved.
“Where is your servant?”
“I am my servant.”
“I can’t give a white man deck passage. It’s not only against the rules—but against reason.”
Morning groped for his arm. “Take me into the light,” he said.
The man obeyed.
“What day is this?”
“Night of September six.”