The Backslid Baptist was busy at the moment excavating a busted cork out of the neck of a queer looking square bottle. "Baptis', whut you got?" "Smells lak equalizer. Wait till Ah gits dis cork out, an' us sees." "Whut dat sign say on de bottle?" The Backslid Baptist inspected the label affixed to the flat side of the bottle. "Ol' sign reads 'Acrobatic Spirits of Pneumonia.' Bam! Un-konkered de ol' cork. Smell dat. 'At learns you not to believe in signs. When yo' eyes sees one thing an' yo' nose sees another you betteh believe yo' nose." He took a long drag at the bottle and passed it over to the Wildcat. "Whuf! Ol' lady in Lower 6 felt poo'ly dis mawnin', but she 'sorbed th'ee drams f'm dis heah bottle, an' so far she's et twelve dollahs' wuth ob grub up ahaid in de dinin' cah." The Wildcat swung on to the "Acrobatic Spirits of Pneumonia," lingering at the spout for several disappointing seconds after the contents of the bottle had gurgled down his neck. "Whuf! Ah missed de pneumonia, Backslid, but Ah sho' feels acrobatic. How come de lady lose de bottle?" "She done got careless when de spirits come. You better th'o 'at glassware away now an' git ready fo' tellin' de boss how you craves a porter's job." Half an hour later, leading his mascot goat and closely convoyed by the Backslid Baptist, the Wildcat walked down the platform in the dark trainshed of the station in Chicago. Throughout the long ride down Prairie Avenue to the habitation of the forger from whom the recommending letters were to be obtained the Wildcat's woolly bean spun with the momentum which he had drained from the bottle abandoned by the careless lady in Lower 6. An hour later, armed with five ironclad letters, he returned along the route, arriving finally at the portals of the office building on West Adams Street wherein Pullman porters are created from select brunet humanity. Presently, across a wide desk he confronted Authority. A kindly gentleman questioned him, and to the questions he replied with an assortment of impromptu lies whose range and ingenuity busted every previous record for careless language. Ten minutes later he was a hired man. "C'm on heah. 'At's all." The Backslid Baptist at his elbow sensed the successful conclusion of the interview. "You mean Ah's a porter?" the bewildered Wildcat asked when the pair had gained the street level. "Ah'll say you is." "An' all de tips I gits is mine to keep?" "Dey is previdin' you gits outen yo' trance an' takes yo' cah on de 4:10." "Hot dam, Lily! C'm on heah. Us weahs a blue coat all de time an' don't do nuthin' but spend de money whut de white folks showers down." "You betteh make arrangements at some livery stable to p'vide board an' room fo' Lily whilst you is A.W.O.L." "How come? Whah at I goes de goat goes."