“Very likely not,” was his answer. Mr. Robinson instantly arrived at the determination that the stranger was “stuck up,” but was in no degree cast down thereby.
“I heard Chet Timson tellin’ that the’ was a feller comin’ f’m N’York to work in Dave Harum’s bank. Guess you’re him, ain’t ye?”
No answer this time: theory confirmed.
“My name’s Robinson,” imparted that individual. “I run the prince’ple liv’ry to Homeville.”
“Ah!” responded the passenger.
“What d’you say your name was?” asked Mr. Robinson, after he had steered his team around one of the monuments to public spirit.
“It’s Lenox,” said John, thinking he might concede something to such deserving perseverance, “but I don’t remember mentioning it.”
“Now I think on’t, I guess you didn’t,” admitted Mr. Robinson. “Don’t think I ever knowed anybody of the name,” he remarked. “Used to know some folks name o’ Lynch, but they couldn’t ’a’ ben no relations o’ your’n, I guess.” This conjecture elicited no reply.
“Git up, goll darn ye!” he exclaimed, as one of the horses stumbled, and he gave it a jerk and a cut of the whip. “Bought that hoss of Dave Harum,” he confided to his passenger. “Fact, I bought both on ’em of him, an’ dum well stuck I was, too,” he added.
“You know Mr. Harum, then,” said John, with a glimmer of interest. “Does he deal in horses?”
“Wa’al, I guess I make eout to know him,” asserted the “prince’ple liv’ryman,” “an’ he’ll git up ’n the middle o’ the night any time to git the best of a hoss trade. Be you goin’ to work fer him?” he asked, encouraged to press the question. “Goin’ to take Timson’s place?”
“Really,” said John, in a tone which advanced Mr. Robinson’s opinion to a rooted conviction, “I have never heard of Mr. Timson.”
“He’s the feller that Dave’s lettin’ go,” explained Mr. Robinson. “He’s ben in the bank a matter o’ five or six year, but Dave got down on him fer some little thing or other, an’ he’s got his walkin’ papers. He says to me, says he, ‘If any feller thinks he c’n come up here f’m N’York or anywheres else,’ he says, ‘an’ do Dave Harum’s work to suit him, he’ll find he’s bit off a dum sight more’n he c’n chaw. He’d better keep his gripsack packed the hull time,’ Chet says.”
“I thought I’d sock it to the cuss a little,” remarked Mr. Robinson in recounting the conversation subsequently; and, in truth, it was not elevating to the spirits of our friend, who found himself speculating whether or no Timson might not be right.
“Where you goin’ to put up?” asked Mr. Robinson after an interval, having failed to draw out any response to his last effort.
“Is there more than one hotel?” inquired the passenger.
“The’s the Eagle, an’ the Lake House, an’ Smith’s Hotel,” replied Jehu.
“Which would you recommend?” asked John.
“Wa’al,” said Robinson, “I don’t gen’ally praise up one more’n another. You see, I have more or less dealin’ with all on ’em.”
“That’s very diplomatic of you, I’m sure,” remarked John, not at all diplomatically. “I think I will try the Eagle.”
Mr. Robinson, in his account of the conversation, said in confidence—not wishing to be openly invidious—that “he was dum’d if he wa’n’t almost sorry he hadn’t recommended the Lake House.”
It may be inferred from the foregoing that the first impression which our friend made on his arrival was not wholly in his favor, and Mr. Robinson’s conviction that he was “stuck up,” and a person bound to get himself “gen’ally disliked,” was elevated to an article of faith by his retiring to the rear of the vehicle, and quite out of ordinary range. But they were nearly at their journey’s end, and presently the carryall drew up at the Eagle Hotel.
It was a frame building of three stories, with a covered veranda running the length of the front, from which two doors gave entrance—one to the main hall, the other to the office and bar combined. This was rather a large room, and was also to be entered from the main hall.
John’s luggage was deposited, Mr. Robinson was settled with, and took his departure without the amenities which might have prevailed under different conditions, and the new arrival made his way into the office.
Behind the bar counter, which faced the street, at one end of which was a small high desk and at the other a glazed case containing three or four partly full boxes of forlorn-looking cigars, but with most ambitious labels, stood the proprietor, manager, clerk, and whatnot of the hostelry, embodied in the single person of Mr. Amos Elright, who was leaning over the counter in conversation with three or four loungers who sat about the room with their chairs tipped back against the wall.
A sketch of Mr. Elright would have depicted a dull “complected” person of a tousled baldness, whose dispirited expression of countenance was enhanced by a chin whisker. His shirt and collar gave unmistakable evidence that pajamas or other night-gear were regarded as superfluities, and his most conspicuous garment as he appeared behind the counter was a cardigan jacket of a frowsiness beyond compare. A greasy neck scarf was embellished with a gem whose truthfulness was without pretence. The atmosphere of the room was accounted for by a remark
