IV
A big black Carib carried me on his back through the to the ship’s boat. On the way the purser handed me a letter that he had brought for me at the last moment from the post-office in Aguas Frescas. It was from my brother. He requested me to meet him at the St. Charles Hotel in New Orleans and accept a position with his house—in either cotton, sugar, or sheetings, and with five thousand dollars a year as my salary.
When I arrived at the City I hurried away—far away from the St. Charles to a garnie in Bienville Street. And there, looking down from my window from time to time at the old, yellow, house across the street, I wrote this story to buy my bread and butter.
“Can thim that helps others help thimselves?”