As I passed the last coach of the Mobile train two forms loomed up on the side-track.
"There he is! He is the fellow!" cried one of the men.
"Yes, I'm the fellow," and stiffening my forearm, I delivered the sheriff, who stepped out to intercept me, a right swing under the chin——crack!
The man received the full benefit of the motion of my body and went to the ground like a ten pin. It was a blow I had been taught at the Ardell Club while taking boxing lessons under Cy Flinn, a pugilist of considerable local fame in Buffalo.
The engineer, sitting backwards in his cab, had witnessed the trouble, and as I vanished between two mail cars, the whole train jumped with a sudden burst of speed.
Evidently the kindhearted engineer was keeping up his part of the contract to take me through.
It was dark when we reached Biloxi and Gulf Port, and by careful dodging I escaped the men who had searched the train at these points.
The biggest part of the journey was now over the Gulf waters, and at an extremely slow rate of speed.
At nine o'clock that night we crossed the Mississippi, and the train came to a standstill at the depot on Canal street, New Orleans.
I stayed in New Orleans one week.