Thirty-five years ago, Effingham was an unsuspected factor. That was before somebody had demonstrated that the chain of red hills encircling the then small town, contained immense deposits of iron ore and coal, and other mineral matter, that could be converted into practical purposes. Effingham lay, at that time, in the valley, where, as yet, most of it is found; then, it was regarded as only an ordinary town, without any expectation of future greatness. It had, to be exact, thirty-eight thousand, fourteen years ago, fifteen thousand Negroes, and the remainder white population, including a few Chinese. Today, the city boasts of approximately one hundred seventy thousand. Thus the city had developed, regardless of circumstances, which our story will unfold. But Sidney Wyeth, our erstwhile observer and literary contemporary, had not been long in Effingham, before he had come to learn that it was not the city Attalia was, in spite of its great industries, and its million dollar payroll, which was employed in advertising the iron city. To begin with, capital--hard cash--was a very expensive thing to use toward the development of its extension. When the city incorporated the many little towns that make up a large part of its present population, it began to run in debt; a great deficit was customary at the end of each year, and now, at the time of our story, it was still energetically engaged in the same task--piling up a deficit. The many little towns that are a part of the city, and where most of the great industrial concerns are located, are practically controlled by the interests. But when the Tennessee Coal and Iron Company became a vested interest, it took over all these various concerns, and merged them into a trust, which is a problem to every congress. And now as Sidney Wyeth saw it, the company owned everything. It almost owned the Negroes, and thousands of foreigners who were employed by the company. But there was one thing the T.C.I. company did not own, and that was train loads of liquor consumed by its black help, and, of course, the whites also, to a degree, but not in such proportion. Drink was very popular in Effingham, exceedingly popular. It operated to an alarming degree everywhere, and about pay days, held sway in certain portions of the town, and made everything run riot. And yet there were not nearly so many saloons in Effingham as there might have been. It cost too much for the privilege. At three thousand dollars a year, only about one hundred fifty saloons were in operation. But some years before, while the state was under prohibition, "tigers" became the order. And now many of them still operated. Especially on Sunday and after closing hours, they were busy. They dealt in a liquor known, in general, as "busthead;" and to say that it deserved such a title, is saying little enough.