Nevertheless, it had been the only hotel that Spunkville could boast, all within a short period of this writing.  Like most Western hotels, it had been ably supported by a large floating population, known as “New York Drummers,” and many a time had its old walls re-echoed with their guileless hilarity and moral tales; and, if the ancient and time-honored spittoon in the bar-room could speak, it could relate wonderful stories concerning the Sample Gentry; relating, perhaps, to a Spunkville merchant, who, having retreated precipitately down his cellar stairs several tunes during the day, to avoid “them confounded drummers, with their everlasting samples,” was, while plodding his lonely way homeward, seized upon by these commercial freebooters, conveyed forthwith to the Half-Way House, and there deluged with such a perfect torrent of brow-beating eloquence as to reduce him to an imbecile state, in which condition he would willingly order large bills of goods, a custom still somewhat in vogue, and known as “commanding trade.”

At other times, it was refreshing to see a drummer emerge from a week’s carousal, take a drink of plain soda, and write a long letter to his employers concerning the extreme dulness of trade.

But since the new hotel had been built the Half-Way House had waned, and its quiet was only invaded by an occasional straggling traveller or a runaway couple, and its walls resounded with nothing more clamorous than the orgies of a Sunday-school picnic.

It is, however, with the Ladies’ Parlor only (that wretched abode of female discomfort in all country hotels) that we have to do.

The furniture of the room consisted of the articles usually found in a boudoir of this kind, to wit:  a straight-backed sofa, much worn; the inevitable and horrid straw carpeting; that old Satanic piano, that never was in tune; an antique and rheumatic table, and three wheezy old chairs.  The only present attempts at ornament were two in number.  The first was a large engraving of the Presidents of the United States, which had formerly done duty in the bar-room, where the villagers were wont to gaze upon it in an awe-struck manner, being impressed with a vague idea that it was CHRISTY’S Minstrels.  The second was a living statue, none other than ANN BRUMMET waiting for JEFFRY MAULBOY.

“Half-past three, and not come yet,” said she.  “Look out, JEFFRY MAULBOY, for if you do go back on me”—­

She paused, for she saw a man coming towards the house.

“Well, if that ain’t ARCHIBALD BLINKSOP,” she added, “I’m regularly sold.  What can he want here?”

Yes, it was ARCHIBALD sure enough, biting his finger-nails and breathing very short, while he cast furtive glances at the windows.

He went slowly up the steps and into the entry just as Mrs. BACKUP, the landlady of the House, came out of her sitting-room.