The train was literally filled with negroes. I had a dull time with that crowd until we got to Rockingham, where Claude Dockery, whom I had met at the State University at Chapel Hill several years prior to that, joined the party and introduced me to the most interesting character in the Dockery contingent, Rich Lilly, a tall, wiry, limber negro, with juicy mouth and knappy, dusty head. Rich was going to do what he could toward the nomination of his old friend, Col. Oliver Dockery. Somewhere between Rockingham and Maxton Rich and I were thrown together, when no one else was near. Rich beckoned to me and dodged behind a freight car and, in order to see what he wanted, I followed.
“Boss, is you gwine to Maxton?” asked Rich, holding his right hand under his coat tail as if to draw his gun.
“Yes, sir. That is where I am bound for.”
“Well, say, boss, here’s des’ a little uv Duckery’s best, won’t you have er drink?”
“No, thank you, I don’t drink,” said I.
“Looker here, boss, you mus’ not be no delegate?”
“No, I am not.”
“Well, is yer gwine to de convention?”
“Yes.”
The train started and we got aboard. Rich could not understand; my attitude toward his elixir of life astonished him.