l
added.

They went forward in silence, Yancy brooding and suspicious. For the
last mile or so their way had led through an unbroken forest, but
a sudden turn in the road brought them to the edge of an extensive
clearing. Close to the road were several buildings, but not a tree had
been spared to shelter them and they stood forth starkly, the completing
touch to a civilization that was still in its youth, unkempt, rather
savage, and ruthlessly utilitarian. 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. "Yes, sir, slack's
the only name for it." It was understood he referred to the state of
trade. He looked from one to the other of the two men. As his eyes
rested on Murrell, that gentleman raised the first three fingers of
his right hand. The gesture was ever so little, yet it seemed to have a
tonic effect on Mr. Slosson. What might have developed into a smile had
he not immediately suppressed it, twisted his bearded lips as he made
an answering movement. "Eph, come here, you!" Slosson raised his voice.
This call brought a half-grown bla