His amazing morning swept before his mind like a moving-picture film; there were so many things he could not explain even to himself, much less to these two Gentiles. "I found lodgings," he said. "Lodgings?" Witherbee and Bunsen chorused the word. "Where, for heaven's sake?" "I don't know the name of the street," Simpson admitted. "I don't even know the name of my hostess.
It was his instinct to defend any one who was attacked on moral grounds, whether they deserved the attack or not. "Ye-es," Witherbee drawled. "I dare say it is. It's her company that's unsavoury. Especially for a parson. Eh? What's the matter now?" Simpson had flared up at his last words. His mouth set and his eyes burned suddenly.
The indifference of it all, its rock-ribbed impenetrability to human influence, laid a crushing weight on Simpson's soul, so that he almost sank to his knees in sheer oppression of spirit. "Do you know much about Hayti?" asked Witherbee, coming up behind him. "As much as I could learn from books."
In the stretch between the Square and Eleventh Street, it points out as residences of particular interest those of Paul Dana, No. 1, George T. Bestle, No. 3, F. Spencer Witherbee, No. 4, and Lispenard Stewart, No. 6; all below Eighth Street. Then, between Eighth and Ninth, Pierre Mali, No. 8, John C. Eames, No. 12, Miss Abigail Burt, No. 14, Dr. J. Milton Mabbott, No. 17, Dr.
All that he had wanted was a start; he had it now, though he deplored the rum which would be drunk at his first meeting with the natives. One must begin where one could. Witherbee, sitting in the window of the consulate, called twice before Simpson heard him. "You look pretty cheerful," he said. "Things going well?"
"You have lived here long?" "Long enough," Witherbee answered. "Five years." "You know the natives, then?" "Can't help knowing them. There are quite a lot of them, you see, and there's almost no one else. Do you know negroes at all?" "Very little." "You'd better study them a bit before you before you do anything you have it in mind to do the Haytian negro in particular.
His exaltation a thing of a moment, as his fervour had been had gone out of him, leaving him limp, uncertain of his own powers, of his own calling, even the prey to the discouragement that precedes action, which is the deepest discouragement of all. Except for himself and Witherbee the pier was deserted; behind him the filthy town slept in its filth.
Don't forget that." He turned quickly and was gone before the cripple's boat had reached the landing. The town, just stirring out of its siesta as Simpson followed the cripple through the streets, somehow reassured him. Men like Bunsen and Witherbee, who smiled at his opinions and remained cold to his rhapsodies, always oppressed him with a sense of ineffectuality.
"Here he is now!" Bunsen exclaimed as Simpson approached. "I was just getting anxious about you. Stopped at the hotel you hadn't been there, they said. Port au Prince is a bad place to get lost in. Oh this gentleman is our consul. Mr. Witherbee Mr. Simpson." Simpson shook hands. Witherbee's face was just a pair of dull eyes behind a ragged moustache, but there was unusual vigour in his grip.
"Why am I safe?" "Because your landlady is who she is." Witherbee glanced over his shoulder, and, although they were the only people on the pier, from force of habit he dropped his voice. "The mamaloi has more power than the Church." He straightened and looked out toward the ship. "Here's her idiot with your trunk. My office is the first house on the left after you leave the pier.