one of the hotel men what business the man was in and where he usually kept himself.
"He is a traveling salesman," was the answer. "He sells horse and cattle medicine."
"Oh, I see," said Tom, and set his brain to work to play some joke on the sour-looking vender of stock remedies.
Tom's chance came sooner than expected. A batch of colored folks had drifted into the place under the impression that a certain planter was going to give them work at big wages. They were a worthless lot, the scum of other plantations, and nobody wanted them.
Sitting down, Tom penned the following note and got it to one of the negroes in a roundabout fashion:
"The man who wants you and all of the others is Sandy Sladen. He does not dare to say so here at the hotel, but all of you had better go up to him on the sly and tell him you are ready to work, and ask for a dollar in advance—that's the sign that it is all right. Do not let him put you off, as he may want to test you. This is the chance of your life."
The communication was signed with a scrawl that might mean anything. The negro read it and passed it to his friends. All were mystified, but
