Near the door of the principal building, a frame tavern, a man was seated, with his feet on the horse-rack.

There was no other sign of human occupancy.
"How do you do, sir ?" said the judge, halting before this solitary individual whom he conjectured to be the 'landlord.

The man nodded, thrusting his thumbs into the armholes of his vest.

"What's the name of this bustling metropolis ?" continued the judge, cocking his head on one side.
As he spoke, Bruce Carrington appeared in the tavern door; pausing there, he glanced curiously at the shabby wayfarers.
"This is Raleigh, in Shelby County, Tennessee, one of the states of the Union of which, no doubt, you've heard rumor in your wanderings," said the landlord.
"Are you the voice from the tomb ?" inquired the judge, in a tone of playful sarcasm.
Carrington, amused, sauntered toward him.
"That's one for you, Mr.Pegloe!" he said.
"I am charmed to meet a gentleman whose spirit of appreciation shows his familiarity with a literary allusion," said the judge, bowing.
"We ain't so dead as we look," said Pegloe.

"Just you keep on to Boggs' race-track, straight down the road, and you'll find that out--everybody's there to the hoss-racing and shooting-match.