seen here in daylight," the little man says to the traveller, recovering himself, and with a show of seriousness. "You had better take it, and go back; really you had. Davy's Bend will never suit you. It don't suit anybody. The last man that came here stood it a week, when off he went, and we never expected to see another one. Look at these deserted houses in every direction," he continues, stepping out farther into the middle of the street, as if to point around him, but remembering that the night is so dark that nothing can be seen, he goes back to his companion, and pokes him in the ribs, which causes that worthy to snort once more in the odd way that the stranger noticed on coming up. This reminds them of their joke again; so they return to the building, leaning against it with their arms, their heads, and their backs, laughing as they did before. Meanwhile the stranger stands out in the rain, watching the two odd men with an air of interest; but at last, recollecting his condition, he says,—

"It happens that I am looking for a place that suits nobody, and one that is generally avoided. If you will point out the way to the hotel, I will decide that question for myself to-morrow."

The little man picks up the lantern immediately when the hotel is mentioned.

"I never thought of the hotel," he exclaims, on the alert at once, and starting up the street, followed by his snorting companion, who ambled along like the front part of a wagon pushed from behind. "It is my business to be at the station when the train arrives, to look for passengers," the man continues as he hurries on with the light; "but it seemed like a waste of time to go down there, for nobody ever comes; so I thought I'd spend the time with Tug."

The man says this in a tone of apology, as though accustomed to making explanations for lack of attention to business; and as he leads the way he is not at all like the jolly fellow who laughed so immoderately, while leaning against the building, at his own weak joke; but perhaps he is one thing when on duty, and another when he is out airing himself. However this may be, the stranger follows, taking long strides to keep up, and occasionally stumbling over the person who has been referred to as Tug, and who appears to be unjointed in his legs; for when room is made for him on the left-hand side of the walk, he is sure suddenly to turn up on the right.

Thus they hurry along without speaking, until at length a dim light appears directly ahead of them, and coming up to this presently, the stranger finds that it comes from a building lying across the course in which they are travelling; for the street leading up from the river and the station ends abruptly in that direction with the hotel, as it ended in the other with the station. Another street crosses here at right angles, and the hotel turns travellers either to the right or to the left.

When the three men enter the place, and the light is turned up, the traveller sees that it had formerly been a business place; that it has been patched and pieced, and does not seem to answer the purpose for which it is being used without a protest, for the guests fall down two steps when they attempt to enter the dining-room, and everyone is compelled to go outside the office to get to the stairway leading to the rooms above. In its better days the room used as an office had probably been a provision store; for the whitewash on the walls does not entirely cover price-lists referring to chickens and hams and oats and flour.

"I am the clerk here," the man who had carried the lantern says, as he brings out a chair for the stranger, but condemns it after examination because both the back legs are gone, and it can only be used when leaning against the wall. "I am sorry I was not at the station to meet you; but it is so seldom that anyone comes that I hope you will not mention it to him," pointing his thumb upward, evidently referring to the proprietor sleeping above.

The arrival was thinking that queer little men like the one before him were to be found at every country hotel he had ever visited, acting as clerk during the hours when there was no business, and as hostler and waiter during the day, but he rather liked the appearance of this fellow, for he seemed more intelligent than the most of them, so he turned to listen to what he was saying, at the same time recollecting that he himself had suddenly become very grave.

"This is not much of a hotel," the clerk continues, at last fishing out a chair that seems to be strong, and placing it in front of the guest; "but it is the best Davy affords. The hotel, though, is better than the town; you will find that out soon enough."

A small man, of uncertain age, the clerk turns out to be, now that the light is upon him. He may be thirty, or forty, or fifty; for, judged in some ways, he looks old, while judged in other ways he looks young; but it is certain that he is not jolly around the hotel as he was on the street, for he is very meek, and occasionally strokes his pale face, which is beardless, with the exception of a meek little tuft on either side, as though he thinks that since he has been caught laughing it will go hard with him.

After looking at his companion, with an amused smile, for a moment, the stranger says that he will not mention anything, good or bad, "to him," whoever he may be, and, while thinking to himself that "Davy" is a familiar way of referring to Davy's Bend, he notices that the man who has already been called Tug, and who has found a chair and is sitting bolt upright in it, is eyeing him closely. He also remarks that Tug is hideously ugly, and that he is dressed in a suit of seedy black, which has once been respectable, but is now so sleek, from long use, that it glistens in the lamplight. He has a shock of hair, and a shock of beard, both of which seem to have been trimmed recently by a very awkward person; and the stranger also notices, in the course of his idle examination, that one of Tug's eyes, the left one, is very wide open, while the other is so nearly shut that generally the man seems to be aiming at something. When Tug winks with the eye that is wide open, the one that is nearly shut remains perfectly motionless, but follows the example presently, and winks independently and of its own accord, so that the stranger thinks of him as walking with his eyes, taking a tremendous leap with his left, and then a limp with his right.

Tug continues his observations, in spite of the cold stare of the stranger, and makes several discoveries, one of which is, that the stranger has a rather good-looking face and a large and restless eye. Tug imagines that he can read the man's character in his eye as easily as in an open book, for it has varying moods, and seems to be resolute at one moment, and gloomy and discontented at another. Although he is looking straight at him, Tug is certain that the stranger's thoughts are not always in Davy's Bend; and, while thinking that the stranger has important matters to think of somewhere, the clerk returns from the kitchen, carrying in his arms a great piece of cold beef, a loaf of bread, a half a pie in a tin plate, and a coffee-pot and a tumbler. Covering with a newspaper a round table that stands in the room, he places the articles upon it, and asks the guest to sit up and help himself.

The stranger declined, but he noticed that Tug, from his position against the wall, was walking toward the table with his eyes, with first a long step and then a short one, and that at a sign from his friend he walked over hurriedly with his legs, and went to work with a ravenous appetite, putting pieces of meat and bread into his mouth large enough to strangle him. This convinced the stranger that the lunch was really prepared for Tug, and that there would have been disappointment had he accepted the clerk's invitation.

"I don't suppose you care to know it," the clerk said, seating himself, and apparently enjoying the manner in which Tug was disposing of the cold meat, "but my name is Silas Davy. I am what is known