Presently, he happened upon a letter carrier. No time was lost here. This man was paid for his work, so he forthwith became a victim of the most artful spiel, and bought the book, cash. This served to spur Sidney to renew his efforts, and he attacked those he approached more vigorously. For a time he met with no more success. He had a lunch at a nearby restaurant, of pigs feet and sweet potato custard. After an hour, he resumed his efforts. And this began his discoveries. Entering a yard, he came up the steps of a house from the back way. He passed a refrigerator, and crossed the porch to knock at the door. But--a bottle of Kentucky's John Barleycorn calmly rested upon this same refrigerator. The door at which he knocked was opened presently, and he was invited to enter, which he did; but, when leaving by the same way, after selling another book for cash, "John" was gone. At the next house, his customer was a tall woman of middle age and dark skinned. She drew him adroitly into a prolonged conversation, and then bought the book. Now, Attalia is a _prohibition_ town in a southern _prohibition_ state. Yes, it _is_--and it _isn't_. When Sidney Wyeth left that house that afternoon, he had spent part of what he received for the book, for beer and whiskey. Moreover, he was told that more than seventy-five places on Audubon Avenue were engaged likewise, and in the city all--but that is a matter for conjecture! Obviously, _prohibition_ did not _prohibit_--but more of this later in the story. * * * * * That evening, while dining, he became acquainted with Ferguson and Thurman, who will, for a time, occupy a part in the development of this plot. Ferguson was a preacher, but at this time--and for some time--had not preached. He admitted painting to be more profitable from a financial point of view. He complained, however, that if the "New Freedom" continued in power much longer at Washington, and with the way things "was a-goin'," he would have to give that up and go back to pickin' cotton. "They ain' nothin' in preachin' no mo', that's a sho thing." "I do not agree with you on that score," said Sidney; "for, from what I have learned already in regard to these parts, there must apparently be more money in preaching than anything else, judging from the number of preachers. And how fat they all appear!" Ferguson looked up quickly at this remark, and as quickly down at himself. "I didn' get this flesh preachin', I assuah you," he retorted, with flushed face. And after a pause, he went on with some heat: