A negro who lived near by furnished me with soap and water, though I was minus a handkerchief and was compelled to dry my face with old newspapers.
Flomaton is a small town, not more than a mile from the Florida State line, and derives most of its importance from being a railroad center.
I started down town in search of a restaurant, but had not proceeded far when I was overtaken by a man who inquired:
"Have you heard the news?"
"What news?" I asked.
"Why, a railroad man was shot and instantly killed near the depot this morning, just before light."
"Who shot him?" I asked.
"As yet they have no clew," replied the man, looking at me keenly, "but it is thought he was shot by a stranger."
We were now near the depot. A passenger train was steamed up.