Young Hatfield, who was a student in one of the colleges of Attalia, had been to the city before, was well acquainted, and pointed out the many places of interest, and, in particular, those conducted by black people. "The president of this bank, Dr. Jerauld," he explained, "is in failing health, and is substituted by the vice, Dr. Dearford." "I see," acknowledged the other. "So the president, then, is a physician." "No," corrected the other, "a minister." Wyeth recalled now, that "Reverend" or "Elder" was almost a thing of the past among Negro preachers. They were all called, and called themselves "doctors." But he did not then realize to what extent this title was usurped. Beyond the instant of medicine and dentistry, he had noted that "doctor" was an honorary term, conferred upon men who had done something notable in the evolution of mankind; but he was soon to learn that the title had become a fetish with his people, sought after and preempted by any and everyone without even the remotest right to claim it. "Everything that has ever been started down south has been done by the preachers. A Negro preacher down here, in the past in particular, has headed everything. Of course, that would be natural, granting that almost every man with ambition to be before the public has been a preacher," Hatfield explained. "Now, for example, the largest insurance company in Attalia--that is, with offices there and conducted by our people--has for its president, a preacher located in this town." "I've heard of him. His name is--" "Dr. Walden," he explained. "He's the pastor of a big church on the other side of town. Dr. Jerauld, before he retired, was pastor of the Sixth Avenue church." "And what denomination do these preacher business men represent?" "Oh, Baptist, of course. As I said, they are at the head of everything, including," and he smiled humorously, "a great many wives of other men." They both laughed, and Legs, who was almost forgotten, joined in. By this time, they were wandering aimlessly down a street that finally came to an end, and ran abruptly into a brick wall. Changing their course into another street, they continued their indefinite pilgrimage. Presently, they paused before one or two neat looking houses, and inquired regarding rooms. Both were full. A convention of preachers was still in session, which explained the state of circumstances. So, on again they went, until they paused at a corner. A middle-aged woman sat on the front porch of a house that rose to two stories, and was decorated with two vine-laden porches. The house appeared to contain possibly seven or eight rooms. "Hello, Mis'!" exclaimed Legs, in greeting so familiar that Wyeth felt he surely must know her. "How-do," she answered as familiarly and smiling. "Three tramps we are from Attalia, and without a place to roost. Do you happen to have a spare pole or two?" "Sho has. Come upon the po'ch and be seated," she invited.