"Whe' you from?" they inquired, with all that is southern and hospitable in their tone. "From the _Rosebud Country_, South Dakota," he replied. Their faces were a study. Somewhere in the years gone by they might have heard of that state in school, but the _Rosebud Country_ was Greek to them. "O-oh," they echoed, and then looked at each other and back at him. Presently one of them inquired: "Where is that?" "In Africa," he answered, but they did not catch the joke, and to this day, they speak of the man they met from the Dark Continent. At that moment, the train was crossing a stream over the highest bridge Sidney had ever seen, with possibly one or two exceptions. It seemed a thousand feet to the crystal water below, and every eye was fixed upon it. The porter, a long, lank, laughing creature, scion of the south and _some_ porter, seeing an opportunity to draw attention, rushed up in a Shakesperian pose, and related dramatically, the incident of an intoxicated man, who, while crossing that very stream, fell, of a sudden, smack dab over-board, right into it. In concluding, he looked about him more dramatically than ever, as the many "O-ohs," and "Mys!" greeted his terrible story. And Sidney Wyeth, with eyes wide open, inquired if he got wet. "Jes' listen at that," they cried in chorus, and the joke was lost. Down, down the train whirled into the bowels of Dixie. Far away to the east, rising gray and ghostlike above the mists, the pine covered Cumberland Range appeared and reappeared in the distance. Outlined like grim sentinels, the scene, to the hero of this story, recalled the many tragedies of which those mountains were the back-ground. The moon-shiners, the feudists, the hill-billies and the rough-necks, always had a haven there. The puffing of many, many locomotives, the sight of buildings, and the glare of electric lights gave evidence that they had reached a large city. Chattanooga, city of southern trunk lines, and railroad center, now greeted his eye. He spent one night there, and the next day, resumed his journey toward that most conspicuous of all southern towns, Attalia. It was a hundred and fifty miles and more by rail. The train became more crowded as it neared his destination, while the people grew more cosmopolitan. One of these, a black man, entered at one of the many stations, and greeted Wyeth pleasantly, inquiring where he was headed for. Wyeth answered Attalia, and his companion became very sociable. "Understand," said Wyeth, after a moment--the other had possessed himself of a portion of the seat upon which he sat--"that Attalia is one of the best towns in the south, and has one of the finest stations in the country." "La'gest 'n' finest in the wo'ld," said the other, with a show of pride. He was a resident of the state of which Attalia was the capital, and was, furthermore, a preacher. Wyeth didn't care to argue, so let it _be_ the largest and said: