IV
In the afternoon Inchcape Jones appeared with a Ford, whose familiarity made it the more grotesque in this creepy world, and took them to Penrith Lodge, on the cool hills behind Blackwater.
They traversed a packed native section of bamboo hovels and shops that were but unpainted, black-weathered huts, without doors, without windows, from whose recesses dark faces looked at them resentfully. They passed, at their colored driver’s most jerky speed, a new brick structure in front of which stately Negro policemen with white gloves, white sun-helmets, and scarlet coats cut by white belts, marched with rifles at the carry.
Inchcape Jones sighed, “Schoolhouse. Turned it into pesthouse. Hundred cases in there. Die every hour. Have to guard it—patients get delirious and try to escape.”
After them trailed an odor of rotting.
Martin did not feel superior to humanity.