Renson's troubles
were indeed disheartening. Back in the jungled fringe of the town
he had fallen into a swarm of Martiniques, and Renson's French
being nothing more than an unstudied mixture of English and
Spanish, he had not gathered much information. Moreover negro
women from the French isles are enough to frighten any virtuous
young Marine.
"What's the sense o' me tryin' to chew the fat in French?" asked
Renson, with tears in his voice. "I ain't in no condition to work
at this census business any longer anyway. I ain't got to bed
before three in the morning this week"--in his air was open
suggestion that it was some one else's fault--"Some day I'll be
gettin' in bad, too. This mornin' a fool nigger woman asked me if
I didn't want her black pickaninny I was enumeratin', thinkin' it
was a good joke. You know how these bush kids is runnin' around
all over the country before a white man's brat could walk on its
hind legs. 'Yes,' I says, 'if I was goin' alligator huntin' an'
needed bait!' I come near catchin' the brat up by the feet an'
beatin' its can off. I'm out o' luck any way, an'--"
The fact is Renson was aching to be "fired." More than thirty days
had he been subject only to his own will, and it was high time he
returned to the nursery discipline of camp. Moreover he was out of
cigarettes.
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