It was a faint, pungent smell that played in the back of his nose and somehow reminded him of his mother, Caroline Siner, a thick-bodied black woman whom he remembered as always bending over a wash-tub.  This was only one unit of a complex.  The odor was also connected with negro protracted meetings in Hooker’s Bend, and the Harvard man remembered a lanky black preacher waving long arms and wailing of hell-fire, to the chanted groans of his dark congregation; and he, Peter Siner, had groaned with the others.  Peter had known this odor in the press-room of Tennessee cotton-gins, over a river packet’s boilers, where he and other roustabouts were bedded, in bunk-houses in the woods.  It also recalled a certain octoroon girl named Ida May, and an intimacy with her which it still moved and saddened Peter to think of.  Indeed, it resurrected innumerable vignettes of his life in the negro village in Hooker’s Bend; it was linked with innumerable emotions, this pungent, unforgetable odor that filled the Jim Crow car.

Somehow the odor had a queer effect of appearing to push his conversation with the two white Northern men in the drawing-room back to a distance, an indefinable distance of both space and time.

The negro put his suitcase under the seat, hung his overcoat on the hook, and placed his hand-bag in the rack overhead; then with some difficulty he opened a window and sat down by it.

A stir of travelers in the Cairo station drifted into the car.  Against a broad murmur of hurrying feet, moving trucks, and talking there stood out the thin, flat voice of a Southern white girl calling good-by to some one on the train.  Peter could see her waving a bright parasol and tiptoeing.  A sandwich boy hurried past, shrilling his wares.  Siner leaned out, with fifteen cents, and signaled to him.  The urchin hesitated, and was about to reach up one of his wrapped parcels, when a peremptory voice shouted at him from a lower car.  With a sort of start the lad deserted Siner and went trotting down to his white customer.  A moment later the train bell began ringing, and the Dixie Flier puffed deliberately out of the Cairo station and moved across the Ohio bridge into the South.

Half an hour later the blue-grass fields of Kentucky were spinning outside of the window in a vast green whirlpool.  The distant trees and houses moved forward with the train, while the foreground, with its telegraph poles, its culverts, section-houses, and shrubbery, rushed backward in a blur.  Now and then into the Jim Crow window whipped a blast of coal smoke and hot cinders, for the engine was only two cars ahead.

Peter Siner looked out at the interminable spin of the landscape with a certain wistfulness.  He was coming back into the South, into his own country.  Here for generations his forebears had toiled endlessly and fruitlessly, yet the fat green fields hurtling past him told with what skill and patience their black hands had labored.