There was no cop in sight, for which I was deeply thankful. The train was an extremely short one and was rapidly getting under headway when I arrived. A quick glance up and down the train sufficed to show that there were no empty or flat cars along. My ride must be either in the cold winds on top or between the cars. I chose the latter place. In this position a man has to stick close to the end of only one of the two cars he is riding between, for there is always danger of the cars breaking loose and dashing him to instant death upon the tracks beneath. He can hold on to the break rod with his hands and the car bumper affords him a narrow standing room. It was six long, weary hours later--just sunrise--when, more dead than alive, I stepped from the train in Flomaton, or rather I fell off the train in Flomaton. My limbs had become cramped and stiff from standing in one position during the night's long ride, and in trying to jump off the train in the suburbs of the town, I was thrown violently to the ground, sustaining a badly bruised hand and several smaller hurts. A negro who lived near by furnished me with soap and water, though I was minus a handkerchief and was compelled to dry my face with old newspapers. Flomaton is a small town, not more than a mile from the Florida State line, and derives most of its importance from being a railroad center. I started down town in search of a restaurant, but had not proceeded far when I was overtaken by a man who inquired: "Have you heard the news?" "What news?" I asked. "Why, a railroad man was shot and instantly killed near the depot this morning, just before light." "Who shot him?" I asked. "As yet they have no clew," replied the man, looking at me keenly, "but it is thought he was shot by a stranger." We were now near the depot. A passenger train was steamed up. "Where does that train go," I asked. "It leaves in a few minutes for Mobile," he replied, parting with me at a nearby street corner. No sooner was he out of sight than I started on a 2:40 pace for the engine. All thoughts of breakfast fled. A man had been shot dead in the town, and as yet there was no clue as to the identity of the murderer. The citizens of the place would soon be up and astir on the streets, and I stood a fine chance of being arrested on suspicion. With a single bound I was in the engine cab, and the next moment I was pleading with the engineer to take me to Mobile. That my pleading was earnest need not be said, for I won the case. "Wait until we get a good start and then swing the 'blind baggage.' I won't see you," he grinned, "but its rather risky going into Mobile on a passenger train in broad open day, for there's generally two or three cops hanging 'round the depot, and the yard is full of detectives." The word "detective" as used here is what is termed in North Carolina a town constable. In making arrests of this kind the constable is not required by the State to show a warrant.