We walked about a block and Bob Cantrell, as I found was his 
name, swung the door of a building wide open and we walked in. 
“Ma, let me introduce you to a real Tennessean.” Turning to me, “I 
forgot to ask your name.” “Alexander,” I replied. 
Bob at once began to tell his wife how I had taken the stuffing 
out of old Irish John, and he said to her, “I thought the lad was a 
Tennessean the minute I saw him; a lot of these fellers has got to 
learn that the Tenn’s don’t go in to dog-fights.” 
I stayed that night with Bob Cantrell and enjoyed myself very 
much as we talked of many things in Tennessee which were of mutual 
interest, from the old English and Civil War to the moonshiners in 
East Tennessee, and we both agreed that Tennessee had produced more 
real brain than any state in the union. Of course they were just our 
natives’ view of it. 
This was the early part of August and cotton had just begun to 
open ready to pick and as it was too early to start my trapping I 
decided to pick cotton at least a month. Bob told me to go up the 
railroad about Tiller or Varner station, about 50 miles distance, and 
I could probably get a job as that was a good cotton belt. I purchased 
a ticket for Varner station over the Arkansas City and Little Rock 
R. R. the following day. I tried to pay Bob Cantrell for my night’s 
lodging but he says, “No, all you owe me is to come and see me again.” 
So with a Tennessee handshake I bid Bob and his wife good-by and 
mounted the train, which was made up with one passenger car and 
two freight cars. 
The train ran through the overflow country from Arkansas City 
to Tiller station, then the swamp began to raise above the Mississippi 
floods and through this section the roadbeds were built out of logs. 
As we traveled the cars would rock from side to side as though the 
train might topple over at any time, though we were not making 
more than five miles an hour. After passing Tiller we reached a dirt 
grade. The grade had become wet from rain and all at once the train 
toppled over in the ditch. I was on the side that went down. I 
grabbed my grip and as the door could not be opened I kicked out 
one of the upper windows and climbed out. There the train lay, 
like a poor cow mired down in a mudhole. I asked the conductor 
how long he thought it would be before he could get the train back 
on the track. “God knows,” was his reply. I could see a building 
about a half mile up the track so I deserted the train and took it 
afoot. As I neared the house I could see printed on it with lamp black 
or soot from a chimney in box-car letter the word, “Station”. I asked 
the proprietor what station it was and he replied, “We ain’t named 
it yet, it’s too young,” and he added, “we will have a name ready by 
next Christmas and christen it then.” Then I asked him how far it 
was to Varner station. He told me about six miles right up the rail¬ 
road track, so I started out for Varner, and it wasn’t very long before 
I was there. 
Varner had one large general merchandise store, one saloon and 
a boarding house. I was making inquiries about cotton picking when 
— 30 — 
