We
didn't take 'em very serious, nor all the talk we
hearn about 'em down South.
But even at that we mightn't of got into any
trouble if it hadn't of been fur old Bishop Warren.
But that is getting ahead of the story.
We got into that little town--I might jest as
well call it Cottonville--jest about supper time.
Cottonville is a little place of not more'n six hundred
people. I guess four hundred of 'em must be niggers.
After supper we got acquainted with purty
nigh all the prominent citizens in town. They was
friendly with us, and we was friendly with them.
Georgia had jest went fur prohibition a few months
before that, and they hadn't opened up these here
near-beer bar-rooms in the little towns yet, like
they had in Atlanta and the big towns. Georgia
had went prohibition so the niggers couldn't get
whiskey, some said; but others said they didn't
know WHAT its excuse was. Them prominent
citizens was loafing around the hotel and every
now and then inviting each other very mysterious
into a back room that use to be a pool parlour.
They had been several jugs come to town by express
that day. We went back several times ourselves,
and soon began to get along purty well with them
prominent citizens.
Talking about this and that they finally edges
around to the one thing everybody is sure to get
to talking about sooner or later in the South--
niggers.
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