"
The lad laughed at himself as he sprang up and, after washing and
brushing, hastened to help Mr. Quigg with his morning tasks.
He happened to glance out and noticed that their car was on a siding
and that numerous other tracks contained many coaches and freight cars
of different kinds. A small engine was puffing up and down among them,
while on every side beyond were tall buildings and vacant lots.
"Where are we?" he asked.
"Where you said you wanted to go--Columbia."
"Looks like a dirty place," commented Ralph, having had the raw edge of
his curiosity sufficiently dulled at Hendersonville to make him a
little critical already.
"Wait till we get out where you can see something. It's a fine town.
I made a hundred dollars in a week here once."
This sounded like a fortune to Ralph.
"You see, one of the home artists was sick and the other one on a whiz
down at Charleston, and the Legislature was in session. So I just took
pictures and raked in the shekels. Here comes my dray. Shove all the
dishes into that chest, Ralph. We've lots to do today."
A truck driven by a negro and drawn by two mules, hitched up tandem
fashion, now backed up to the open door of the car.
"Hello Sam!" called out, Mr. Quigg. "Got my telegram, did you?"
"Yaas, suh. Marse Thompson, he read um."
"Now, give us a hand, Ralph," continued the artist. "We'll put the
tent on first."
The lad, having bestowed the dishes, lent willing aid in loading the
dray, while Mr.
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