Samson writes that he "fetched a sneeze and wiped his big nose with a red handkerchief" as he stood surveying them in silence, while Dr.John Allen, who had sat on the door-step reading a paper--a kindly faced man of middle age with a short white beard under his chin--greeted them cheerfully.
The withering sunlight of a day late in August fell upon the dusty street, now almost deserted.

Faces at the doors and windows of the little houses were looking out at them.

Two ragged boys and a ginger colored dog came running toward the wagon.

The latter and Sambo surveyed each other with raised hair and began scratching the earth, straight legged, whining meanwhile, and in a moment began to play together.

A man in blue jeans who sat on the veranda of a store opposite, leaning against its wall, stopped whittling and shut his jack-knife.
"Where do ye hail from ?" the Doctor asked.
"Vermont," said Samson.
"All the way in that wagon ?" "Yes, sir." "I guess you're made o' the right stuff," said the Doctor.