A well-dressed young man looked up.
"If you'll pardon me, I'll loan you 50 cents," said he.
"If you'll provide me with an address to which I can return the amount, I'll accept with thanks," I replied.
Taking my book he wrote down, J. M. Turner, Jr., Gainesville, Fla. "I'm cigar salesman for a Gainesville house," he said.
About this time another passenger spoke out.
"I'll loan you twenty-five cents myself," said he, "if you need it."
Without loss of time I handed over my book, and he wrote down R. T. Davis, Hopewell, Fla., and handed me twenty-five cents. (As yet I have been unable to locate one of these gentlemen since returning home.)
Madison is the Southern terminal of the road, and at this point I left the train in company with the conductor, who invited me to lunch.
The freight bound for Tallahassee pulled into Madison at 4 p. m.
I had no trouble in enlisting the sympathy of the conductor, a very genial sort of fellow, who told me to go back to the caboose and keep out of sight until we reached Tallahassee.