In Atlanta

A pink traveling man, who had shut his eyes for a last 20 winks before his mid-afternoon train pulled into Atlanta, sat up with a start. A great shout had awakened him--a shout billowing from thousands of male throats like a sultry banner, striped with the thinner, brighter cries that issue from the female larynx; a shout that had cast, as it unfurled, its majestic shadow upon the smoking-room. The traveling man stepped to the basin and began furiously to wash his face.

His quick mind grasped the situation, in an instant. A glance through the window had revealed to him the fringes of a monstrous crowd that packed the Terminal and the baggage yard, and eddied over into the train sheds. That crowd could have gathered for but one purpose--to welcome some politician or returning hero. But whom? He was aware of no such personage on the train, unless . . . unless. . .

Pausing with the towel at his ear, he again looked out. There, in an automobile surrounded by six motorcycles, sat the Chief of Police; behind this entourage a group of bandsmen in blue coats with fine shiny instruments at their lips were striking up Dixie. It was all as he had imagined it a thousand times. Those horns had blared, that mighty shout unfurled its cloudy splendors in his dreams a thousand times; he had always had a feeling that some day it would come.

His hand shook as he brushed his eyebrows. It was here, the moment he had waited for. What had made them do it now, he wondered. It must have been his last deal; yes, it was that last big Coca Cola sale that had taught them that he was the greatest salesman who had ever gone forth from Atlanta. They had thought they would surprise him but he was ready for them. He knew just what he would say.

"Overcome by gratitude, I can only thank you from my heart, dear friends."

Half into his coat, he looked once more. They were certainly all there--the Kiwanis, the Elks, the Rotarians, the Civitan Club, the presidents of the various golf clubs, Chambermen of Commerce. There was Mayor Sims. But what were they doing to those two whippersnappers?

Two youths were being passed from shoulder to shoulder along the crowd. Both were sunburnt; both grinned broadly. While his heart turned, in his mouth, to unpalatable dough, he watched them borne from the train sheds to the plaza. Helping to carry one of them was Adjutant General Charles Cox of Georgia. They were seated in a motor. To the one whom the Adjutant had carried, a huge silver cup was handed. "Jones," yelled the people. "Watts," they yelled.

The salesman rang for a porter.

"What's Jones?" he demanded. "Who's Watts?"

The blackamoor, dumbfounded, explained how Jones was Robert Tyre Jones Jr., National Amateur Golf Champion, how Watts was Watts Gunn, his friend and opponent in the finals, and how, since both lived in Atlanta, Mayor Sims had issued a proclamation asking all the city to help in their welcome; the city councilmen had passed them a vote of gratitude; and the citizens arranged in their honor the celebration he had just witnessed. "Is there anything else, sir?" inquired the porter when he had made this clear. "Overcome with gratitude," murmured the salesman absently, "I can only thank you."