In Atlanta

A pink traveling man, who had shut his eyes for a last 20 winks before his mid-afternoon train pulled into Atlanta, sat up with a start. A great shout had awakened him—a shout billowing from thousands of male throats like a sultry banner, striped with the thinner, brighter cries that issue from the female larynx; a shout that had cast, as it unfurled, its majestic shadow upon the smoking-room. The traveling man stepped to the basin and began furiously to wash his face.

His quick mind grasped...

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