It was well that the officers of the law had been thus thoughtful in the matter, otherwise a countryman who chanced to be coming along just then would have found it difficult to drive his team even half way through the jam. He was a typical Georgia farmer in his appearance. He wore a wide straw hat to preserve his complexion, a homespun shirt and jeans trousers, the latter being held in place by a dirty pair of home-made suspenders. He drove what is called a spike-team, two oxen at the wheels, and a mule in the lead. The day was warm, but he was warmer. The crowd had flurried him, and he was perspiring more profusely than usual. He was also inclined to use heated language, as those nearest him had no difficulty in discovering. In fact, he was willing to make a speech, as the crowd into which he was wedging his team grew denser and denser. It was observed that when the crowd really impeded the movements of his team, he had a way of touching the mule in the flank with the long whip he carried. This was invariably the signal for such gyrations on the part of the mule as were calculated to make the spectators pay due respect to the animal's heels. "I don't see," said the countryman, "why you fellers don't get out some'rs an' go to work. They's enough men in this crowd to make a crop big enough to feed a whole county, ef they'd git out in the field an' buckle down to it stidder loafin' roun' watchin' 'em spurt water at nothin'. It's a dad-blamed shame that the courts don't take a han' in the matter. Ef you lived in my county, you'd have to work or go to the poor-house. Whoa, Beck! Gee, Buck! Why don't you gee, contrive your hide!" At a touch from the whip, the rearing, plunging, and kicking of the mule were renewed, and the team managed to fight its way to a point opposite where the chief officials of the Police and Fire Department were standing. The waggon to which the team was attached was a ramshackle affair apparently, but was strong enough, nevertheless, to sustain the weight of three bales of cotton, one of the bales being somewhat larger than the others. "My friend," said the Chief of Police, elevating his voice so that the countryman could hear him distinctly, "this is not a warehouse. If you want to sell your cotton, carry it around the corner yonder, and there you'll find the warehouse of Vardeman & Stark." "If I want to sell my cotton? Well, you don't reckon I want to give it away, do you? Way over yander in the fur eend of town, they told me that the cotton warehouse was down here some'rs, an' that it was made of brick. This shebang is down yander, an' it's made of brick. How fur is t'other place?" "Right around the corner," said one in the crowd.