A sign, the work of inexpert hands, announced the
somewhat dingy structure of hewn logs that stood nearest the
roadside a tavern. There was a horse rack in front of it and a
trampled space. It was flanked by its several sheds and barns on
one hand and a woodpile on the other. Beyond the woodpile a rail
fence inclosed a corn-field, and beyond the barns and sheds a
similar fence defined the bounds of a stumpy pasture-lot.
From the door of the tavern the figure of a man emerged. Pausing
by the horse rack he surveyed the two men and boy, if not with
indifference, at least with apathy. Just above his head swung
the sign with its legend, Slosson--Entertainment;" but if he were
Slosson, one could take the last half of the sign either as a
poetic rhapsody on the part of the painter, or the yielding to
some meaningless convention, for in his person, Mr. Slosson
suggested none of those qualities of brain or heart that trenched
upon the lighter amenities of life. He was black-haired and
bull-necked, and there was about him a certain shagginess which a
recent toilet performed at the horse trough had not served to
mitigate.
"Howdy?" he drawled.
"Howdy?" responded Mr. Yancy.
"Shall you stop here?" asked Murrell, sinking his voice. Yancy
nodded. "Can you put us up?" inquired Murrell, turning to the
tavern-keeper.
"I reckon that's what I'm here for," said Slosson. Murrell
glanced about the empty yard. "Slack," observed Slosson
languidly.
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