A corner down town, where the two branches of the car lines fused into one, was the noisiest spot yet. Here Ben Boyd and Bud Dobson, acknowledged to be the two loudest mouthed darkies in town, contended as business rivals. Each wore over his shoulder the sash of eminence and bore on his breast the badge of much honor. Ben Boyd had a shade the stronger voice, perhaps, but Bud Dobson excelled in native eloquence. On opposite sidewalks they stood, sweating like brown stone china ice pitchers, wide mouthed as two bull-alligators. “Come on, you niggers, dis way to de-real show,” Ben Boyd would bellow unendingly, “Remember de grand free balloom ascension teks place at eight o'clock,” and Ben would wave his long arms like a flutter mill. “Don't pay no 'tention, friends, to dat cheap nigger,” Bud Dobson would vociferously plead, “an' don't furgit de grand fire works display at mah park! Ladies admitted free, widout charge! Dis is de only place to go! Tek de green car fur de grand annual outin' an' ball of de Sisters of the Mysterious Ten!” Back it would come in a roar from across the way: “Tek de red car--dat's de one, dat's de one, folks! Dis way fur de big gas balloom!” Both of them were lying--there was no balloon to go up, no intention of admitting anybody free to anything. The pair expanded their fictions, giving to their work the spontaneous brilliancy of the born romancer. Like straws caught in opposing cross currents, their victims were pulled two ways at once. A flustered group would succumb to Bud's blandishments and he would shoo them aboard a green car. But the car had to be starting mighty quick, else Bud Dobson's siren song would win them over and trailing after their leader, who was usually a woman, like blade sheep behind a bell wether they would pile off and stampede over to where the red car waited. Some changed their minds half a dozen times before they were finally borne away.