gain. "I don't care for Jonas
Parker and all of his children. Where is Mr. Weston?"

"Oh," said Elmer, "excuse me. I thought you had come to see me. It's
Weston, eh? Well, his room's just there at the head of the stairs."

He pointed to the door which gave an entrance to the rear hall, but as
I wished to be a bit formal in my call on the stranger, I suggested
that Mr. Spiker might oblige me by seeing if the gentleman was at home.
This seemed entirely unnecessary to mine host, and he wanted to argue
the point. But I insisted, and he arose with a sigh, and taking the
lamp in his hand, disappeared, leaving me in utter darkness. The door
banged shut behind him and I heard him at the foot of the stairs
roaring "Ho-ho-there-ho!"

No answer came from the floor above. Again sounded the stentorian
tones.

"Mark says as if you are there, you're to come down; he wants to see
you."

A last "Ho-there-ho"; a long silence; the door opened. There was light
again and Elmer was before me.

"He ain't there, I guess," he said. "Still, if you want me to make
sure, I'll go up."

[Illustration: No answer came from the floor above.]

Inasmuch as mine host's cries must still be echoing in the uttermost
parts of the house, it seemed needless to compel him to take the climb.
Spiker agreed with me. It was not surprising that Weston was out, for
he was an odd one, always spooking around somewhere, investigating
everything, and asking questions. His room was full of books in
various languages, and when he wasn't wandering about the valley, he
would be sitting reading far into the night--sometimes as late as
half-past ten. There was a fellow named Goth, who seemed to be
Weston's favorite writer. This Goth was a Pennsylvania Dutchman, and
as Elmer's own ancestors were from Allentown, he thought he'd like to
take up the language, so he'd borrowed from his guest a book called
"The Sorrows of Werther." Of all the rubbish that was ever wrote, them
"Sorrows" were the poorest. Elmer had only figured out a page and a
half, but that gave him enough insight into their character to convince
him that a man who could set reading them till half-past ten was--here
mine host tapped his forehead and winked. Curious chap, Weston. Elmer
had seen a heap of men in his time and never met the like. There's no
way to get to see men and understand them like keeping a hotel. When
you've "kept" for about forty years, there's hardly a man comes al