“You’re a civil engineer, are you?” he said, displaying his gums, which gave his countenance an expression of almost infantile innocence.  He made no further audible remark, but mumbled between his thin lips something which an imaginative person might have construed into, “If you’re a civil engineer, I’ll be blessed if I wouldn’t like to see an uncivil one!”

Mr. Sewell’s growl, however, was worse than his bite,—­owing to his lack of teeth, probably—­for he very good-naturedly set himself to work preparing supper for me.  After a slice of cold ham, and a warm punch, to which my chilled condition gave a grateful flavor, I went to bed in a distant chamber in a most amiable mood, feeling satisfied that Jones was a donkey to bother himself about his identity.

When I awoke, the sun was several hours high.  My bed faced a window, and by raising myself on one elbow I could look out on what I expected would be the main street.  To my astonishment I beheld a lonely country road winding up a sterile hill and disappearing over the ridge.  In a cornfield at the right of the road was a small private graveyard, inclosed by a crumbling stone wall with a red gate.  The only thing suggestive of life was this little corner lot occupied by death.  I got out of bed and went to the other window.  There I had an uninterrupted view of twelve miles of open landscape, with Mount Agamenticus in the purple distance.  Not a house or a spire in sight.  “Well,” I exclaimed, “Greenton doesn’t appear to be a very closely packed metropolis!” That rival hotel with which I had threatened Mr. Sewell overnight was not a deadly weapon, looking at it by daylight.  “By Jove!” I reflected, “maybe I’m in the wrong place.”  But there, tacked against a panel of the bedroom door, was a faded time-table dated Greenton, August 1st, 1839.

I smiled all the time I was dressing, and went smiling downstairs, where I found Mr. Sewell, assisted by one of the fair sex in the first bloom of her eightieth year, serving breakfast for me on a small table—­in the bar-room!

“I overslept myself this morning,” I remarked apologetically, “and I see that I am putting you to some trouble.  In future, if you will have me called, I will take my meals at the usual table d’hote.”

“At the what?” said Mr. Sewell.

“I mean with the other boarders.”

Mr. Sewell paused in the act of lifting a chop from the fire, and, resting the point of his fork against the woodwork of the mantel-piece, grinned from ear to ear.

“Bless you! there isn’t any other boarders.  There hasn’t been anybody put up here sence—­let me see—­sence father-in-law died, and that was in the fall of ’40.  To be sure, there’s Silas; he’s a regular boarder; but I don’t count him.”

Mr. Sewell then explained how the tavern had lost its custom when the old stage line was broken up by the railroad.  The introduction of steam was, in Mr. Sewell’s estimation, a fatal error.  “Jest killed local business.  Carried it off, I’m darned if I know where.  The whole country has been sort o’ retrograding ever sence steam was invented.”