This unremitting insistence on his color, this continual shunting him into obscure and filthy ways, gradually gave Peter a loathly sensation.  It increased the unwashed feeling that followed his lack of a morning bath.  The impression grew upon him that he was being handled with tongs, along back-alley routes; that he and his race were something to be kept out of sight as much as possible, as careful housekeepers manoeuver their slops.

At Perryville a number of passengers boarded the up-river boat; two or three drummers; a yellowed old hill woman returning to her Wayne County home; a red-headed peanut-buyer; a well-groomed white girl in a tailor suit; a youngish man barely on the right side of middle age who seemed to be attending her; and some negro girls with lunches.  The passengers trailed from the railroad station down the river bank through a slush of mud, for the river had just fallen and had left a layer of liquid mud to a height of about twenty feet all along the littoral.  The passengers picked their way down carefully, stepping into one another’s tracks in the effort not to ruin their shoes.  The drummers grumbled.  The youngish man piloted the girl down, holding her hand, although both could have managed better by themselves.

Following the passengers came the trunks and grips on a truck.  A negro deck-hand, the truck-driver, and the white master of the launch shoved aboard the big sample trunks of the drummers with grunts, profanity, and much stamping of mud.  Presently, without the formality of bell or whistle, the launch clacked away from the landing and stood up the wide, muddy river.

The river itself was monotonous and depressing.  It was perhaps half a mile wide, with flat, willowed mud banks on one side and low shelves of stratified limestone on the other.

Trading-points lay at ten- or fifteen-mile intervals along the great waterway.  The typical landing was a dilapidated shed of a store half covered with tin tobacco signs and ancient circus posters.  Usually, only one man met the launch at each landing, the merchant, a democrat in his shirt-sleeves and without a tie.  His voice was always a flat, weary drawl, but his eyes, wrinkled against the sun, usually held the shrewdness of those who make their living out of two-penny trades.

At each place the red-headed peanut-buyer slogged up the muddy bank and bargained for the merchant’s peanuts, to be shipped on the down-river trip of the first St. Louis packet.  The loneliness of the scene embraced the trading-points, the river, and the little gasolene launch struggling against the muddy current.  It permeated the passengers, and was a finishing touch to Peter Siner’s melancholy.