travellers were made to feel
that Scully was very benevolent. He was conferring great favors upon
them. He handed the towel from one to the other with an air of
philanthropic impulse.

Afterwards they went to the first room, and, sitting about the stove,
listened to Scully's officious clamor at his daughters, who were
preparing the mid-day meal. They reflected in the silence of
experienced men who tread carefully amid new people. Nevertheless, the
old farmer, stationary, invincible in his chair near the warmest part
of the stove, turned his face from the sawdust box frequently and
addressed a glowing commonplace to the strangers. Usually he was
answered in short but adequate sentences by either the cowboy or the
Easterner. The Swede said nothing. He seemed to be occupied in making
furtive estimates of each man in the room. One might have thought that
he had the sense of silly suspicion which comes to guilt. He resembled
a badly frightened man.

Later, at dinner, he spoke a little, addressing his conversation
entirely to Scully. He volunteered that he had come from New York,
where for ten years he had worked as a tailor. These facts seemed to
strike Scully as fascinating, and afterwards he volunteered that he
had lived at Romper for fourteen years. The Swede asked about the
crops and the price of labor. He seemed barely to listen to Scully's
extended replies. His eyes continued to rove from man to man.

Finally, with a laugh and a wink, he said that some of these Western
communities were very dangerous; and after his statement he
straightened his legs under the table, tilted his head, and laughed
again, loudly. It was plain that the demonstration had no meaning to
the others. They looked at him wondering and in silence.

II

As the men trooped heavily back into the front-room, the two little
windows presented views of a turmoiling sea of snow. The huge arms of
the wind were making attempts--mighty, circular, futile--to embrace
the flakes as they sped. A gate-post like a still man with a blanched
face stood aghast amid this profligate fury. In a hearty voice Scully
announced the presence of a blizzard. The guests of the blue hotel,
lighting their pipes, assented with grunts of lazy masculine
contentment. No island of the sea could be exempt in the degree of
this little room with its humming stove. Johnnie, son of Scully, in a
tone which defined his opinion of his ability as a card-player,
challenged the old fa