"
A certain hot afternoon brought them into the shaded main street
of a straggling village. Near the door of the principal
building, a frame tavern, a man was seated, with his feet on the
horse-rack. There was no other sign of human occupancy.
"How do you do, sir?" said the judge, halting before this
solitary individual whom he conjectured to be the 'landlord. The
man nodded, thrusting his thumbs into the armholes of his vest.
"What's the name of this bustling metropolis?" continued the
judge, cocking his head on one side.
As he spoke, Bruce Carrington appeared in the tavern door;
pausing there, he glanced curiously at the shabby wayfarers.
"This is Raleigh, in Shelby County, Tennessee, one of the states
of the Union of which, no doubt, you've heard rumor in your
wanderings," said the landlord.
"Are you the voice from the tomb?" inquired the judge, in a tone
of playful sarcasm.
Carrington, amused, sauntered toward him.
"That's one for you, Mr. Pegloe!" he said.
"I am charmed to meet a gentleman whose spirit of appreciation
shows his familiarity with a literary allusion," said the judge,
bowing.
"We ain't so dead as we look," said Pegloe. "Just you keep on to
Boggs' race-track, straight down the road, and you'll find that
out--everybody's there to the hoss-racing and shooting-match. I
reckon you've missed the hoss-racing, but you'll be in time for
the shooting. Why ain't you there, Mr. Carrington?"
"I'm going now, Mr.
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