ers, giving him an air of ease or of defiance,
as one might choose to interpret, and his jaws were engaged in mashing
into shape the first quid of the morning.

As the young man reined up his horse at the door, Squire Pleasants
stepped briskly inside and pulled a string which communicated with a
bell somewhere in the backyard.

"This is the Gullettsville Hotel, is it not?" the young man asked.

"Well, sir," responded the squire, rubbing his hands together, "sence
you push me so clos't, I'll not deny that this here's the tavern. Some
calls it the hotel, some calls it the Pleasants House, some one thing,
an' some another, but as for me, I says to all, says I, 'Boys, it's a
plain tavern.' In Fergeenia, sir, in my young days, they wa'n't nothin'
better than a tavern. 'Light, sir, 'light," continued the hospitable
squire, as a tow-headed stable-boy tumbled out at the door in response
to the bell; "drap right down an' come in."

The young man followed the landlord into a bare little office, where he
was given to understand in plain terms that people who stopped with
Squire Pleasants were expected to make themselves completely at home.
With a pen upon which the ink had been dry for many a day the young man
inscribed his name on a thin and dirty register--"Philip Woodward,
Clinton, Georgia;" whereupon the squire, with unnecessary and laborious
formality, assigned Mr. Woodward to a room.

Judging from appearance, the United States Marshal for Georgia had not
gone astray in selecting Woodward to carry out the delicate mission of
arranging for a successful raid upon Hog Mountain. Lacking any
distinguishing trait of refinement or culture, his composure suggested
the possession of that necessary information which is the result of
contact with the world and its inhabitants. He had that large air of
ease and tranquillity which is born of association, and which
represents one of the prime elements of the curious quality we call
personal magnetism. He was ready-witted, and full of the spirit of
adventure. He was the owner of the title to a land-lot somewhere in the
neighbourhood of Hog Mountain, and this land-lot was all that remained
of an inheritance that had been swept away by the war. There was a
tradition--perhaps only a rumour--among the Woodwards that the Hog
Mountain land-lot covered a vein of gold, and to investigate this was a
part of the young man's business in Gullettsville; entirely
subordinate, however, to his desire