"Everything that has ever been started down south has been done by the preachers. A Negro preacher down here, in the past in particular, has headed everything. Of course, that would be natural, granting that almost every man with ambition to be before the public has been a preacher," Hatfield explained. "Now, for example, the largest insurance company in Attalia--that is, with offices there and conducted by our people--has for its president, a preacher located in this town."

"I've heard of him. His name is--"

"Dr. Walden," he explained. "He's the pastor of a big church on the other side of town. Dr. Jerauld, before he retired, was pastor of the Sixth Avenue church."

"And what denomination do these preacher business men represent?"

"Oh, Baptist, of course. As I said, they are at the head of everything, including," and he smiled humorously, "a great many wives of other men."

They both laughed, and Legs, who was almost forgotten, joined in.

By this time, they were wandering aimlessly down a street that finally came to an end, and ran abruptly into a brick wall. Changing their course into another street, they continued their indefinite pilgrimage.

Presently, they paused before one or two neat looking houses, and inquired regarding rooms. Both were full. A convention of preachers was still in session, which explained the state of circ.u.mstances. So, on again they went, until they paused at a corner. A middle-aged woman sat on the front porch of a house that rose to two stories, and was decorated with two vine-laden porches. The house appeared to contain possibly seven or eight rooms.

"h.e.l.lo, Mis'!" exclaimed Legs, in greeting so familiar that Wyeth felt he surely must know her.

"How-do," she answered as familiarly and smiling.

"Three tramps we are from Attalia, and without a place to roost. Do you happen to have a spare pole or two?"

"Sho has. Come upon the po'ch and be seated," she invited.

"A-hem. That's when you said something," smiled Legs, "eh, Mis'?" She joined in the humor.

"Well, boys," said Legs, when they were comfortably seated, "this looks good to me. Supposing we just hang up here, and send for our stuff?"

It was agreeable to the other two, and they were, therefore, duly installed, three in a room. Legs, being the longest, was given a bed to himself, while Hatfield and Wyeth agreed to share another together. It was fortunate for both that it was arranged thus, since Legs proved to be a dreadful night man, and, from his apparently restless way of tossing, required a halter.

"Any saloons around here, Mis'?" he inquired shortly, when she reappeared on the porch a few minutes later.

"Sho is!" she exclaimed. "Yeh, most sho. Go right down this street, turn the corner, and across the street near the other corner, is what you want," she laughed, taking them all for granted. Wyeth and Hatfield followed Legs to the inevitable fountain he now sought energetically.

"Got t' have a little liquah before I c'n feel like myself," he grinned, as they sauntered along.

"h.e.l.lo!" called some one from the rear. Turning, they observed a medium sized Negro walking rapidly in their direction, and beckoning to them.

They halted, and presently he stood before them, introducing himself.

"Pardon me, gentlemen," he began very properly; "but the Mis' back there," pointing in the direction of the house they had just left, "was telling me that you have just taken a room with her, and, since I am the man of the house, I wish to offer my name and make you welcome."

He was very cordial. His name was Moore, John Moore, he said, and to describe him, our pen fails to a degree. He had, however, an odd looking face. His cheek bones were high, slightly Indian-like, while his face was broad. His nose was not flat, nor was it high or medium, it was--just a nose, that's all. He held his head forward aggressively, his eyes were twinkling, and possessed a cordiality that, to a careful observer, was distrustful. And still, his appearance in general, was that of a Negro who might be expected to bluff, but not to fight; to steal when the opportunity was ripe, with enough cunningness to keep from being caught. Otherwise, he was apparently harmless.

They acknowledged his welcome, and, joining them, they all went toward the place of happiness by proxy.

"I'm buyin' this," said Moore, as they lined the bar, four abreast.

"Let me do the buying this time," insisted Legs, who proved himself a sport, and a good mixer.

"I've paid him already," said Moore, as if in dismissal, shoving at the same time, a half dollar across the bar.

"Whiskey," nodded Legs familiarly, to the bartender.

"Little liquah, too," from Moore.

"Beer."

"Beer."

"Drink whiskey!" insisted Legs and Moore, of the other two. "Something that has the kick."

"These are my sons," said Legs, teasingly.

"Hold on heh', George," argued Moore with the bartender, "you know how I take mine. A half-a-pint 'n' two gla.s.ses." The bartender obeyed.

Here Wyeth observed, was diplomacy, albeit economy. Moore paid twenty-five cents for the half pint, wherein he and Legs had six sociable drinks, three a-piece; whereas, the same would have totalled sixty cents otherwise.

"How's this town for gettin' hold a-something?" inquired Legs of Moore, when John Barleycorn was doing his duty.

"Best town in the south to get it, if you're wise," Moore winked.

Legs responded with a big wink. "I'm the man that put 'w' in whiskey,"

he smiled. "I'n get mine when it's in the gettin'."

"What's your line?" from Moore, pouring more whiskey.

"Anything from heavin' coal to sellin' liquah and operatin' a c.r.a.p game, and a little 'skin' when the crowd's right."

"I see," said the other thoughtfully, then added: "And your friends?"

"This lad here is going to school to learn how to get 'his without workin'; while the other boy," pointing to Wyeth, "is already doin'

it."

"Well, men," began Moore, as he opened a fresh half pint that Legs paid for, "as I said, 'f you're _wise_, Effingham is the best town in the country for pickin's. It is, as you should know, the greatest industrial center in the south."

"So I have understood," interposed Wyeth, waiving the bartender's invitation aside; "I am anxious to learn something, everything about the town, and the colored people."

"Are they employed in considerable numbers at the mines, steel mills and furnaces about here, of which the city possesses so many?"

"Thousands upon thousands," he was informed.

"And how are they paid? From a personal standpoint, I'd be glad to know?" went on Wyeth.

"All kinds of wages, and at various times. Some receive as low as a dollar and a quarter, while others make as high as seven and eight; but the average wage runs from a dollar fifty, to three dollars."

"How's the c.r.a.p games?" from Legs, with the usual smile.

"n.i.g.g.a's will shoot c.r.a.ps, yu' know," grinned Moore. "I shoot a little myself when the moon's right," he winked.

"I want t' find a good game as soon as possible, and win about a hundred," said Legs, beginning to show the effects of liquor. Hatfield and Wyeth left them to their cheerful diversion, which was now, to all appearance, warming to the superlative.

The former went toward town, looking for certain friends. Wyeth went back to the place where he was going to stay, and retired. They had called up for their luggage before they went to the saloon. Wyeth was sleeping peacefully, when he was aroused by an argument on the porch. He tried to close his ears, but the same was persistent. It was between the landlady and the expressman, who had arrived with the stuff.