A drizzling rain set in and we were left to ourselves.
"What have you got there?" he asked, some hours later, stumbling against my paper bundles.
"Medicine and clothes," I retorted. He laughed.
"You'll never get to Jacksonville with all that truck," he said. "You'd better get clear of it."
So far my baggage had been a source of constant annoyance, and I, therefore, readily agreed to part with it.
It had ceased raining now, and the dim light in the east told of the near approach of day.
The lights of Florence could be seen faintly gleaming in the distance as we rapidly drew near, and there was no time to lose, so throwing off coat, shoes and hat, I quickly tore open both bundles, and out in a heap rolled shirts, collars, socks, photographs, cough syrup, quick asthma cures—but space forbids naming all the things.
The bundles had been carefully packed by a loving mother, who had thoughtfully placed in one of them a small Bible. I felt better as I placed the little book in an inside pocket, and I would read it and daily pray to God to take me safely through the long journey before me.
My next move was to astonish the negro at the number of shirts and socks I got into.