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.