I hailed him and asked to be driven to a hotel.

He walked with me north toward the river, past the fort and landed me at a hostelry built partly of logs and partly of frames.

Surely this was not New York or Buffalo! As I came to the hotel I saw a man standing at the door, holding the bridle bits of an Indian pony.

He came into the hotel soon, evidently after disposing of his charge.

At that moment I was asking Mr.Wentworth, the hotel manager, how to get to Jacksonville.