I stood with my shawl and carpetbag in hand, gazing doubtingly on the vehicle.  Even in the darkness the red dust of Wingdam was visible on its roof and sides, and the red slime of Slumgullion clung tenaciously to its wheels.  I opened the door; the stage creaked easily, and in the gloomy abyss the swaying straps beckoned me, like ghostly hands, to come in now and have my sufferings out at once.

I must not omit to mention the occurrence of a circumstance which struck me as appalling and mysterious.  A lounger on the steps of the hotel, who I had reason to suppose was not in any way connected with the stage company, gravely descended, and walking toward the conveyance, tried the handle of the door, opened it, expectorated in the carriage, and returned to the hotel with a serious demeanor.  Hardly had he resumed his position when another individual, equally disinterested, impassively walked down the steps, proceeded to the back of the stage, lifted it, expectorated carefully on the axle, and returned slowly and pensively to the hotel.  A third spectator wearily disengaged himself from one of the Ionic columns of the portico and walked to the box, remained for a moment in serious and expectorative contemplation of the boot, and then returned to his column.  There was something so weird in this baptism that I grew quite nervous.

Perhaps I was out of spirits.  A number of infinitesimal annoyances, winding up with the resolute persistency of the clerk at the stage office to enter my name misspelt on the waybill, had not predisposed me to cheerfulness.  The inmates of the Eureka House, from a social viewpoint, were not attractive.  There was the prevailing opinion—­so common to many honest people—­that a serious style of deportment and conduct toward a stranger indicates high gentility and elevated station.  Obeying this principle, all hilarity ceased on my entrance to supper, and general remark merged into the safer and uncompromising chronicle of several bad cases of diphtheria, then epidemic at Wingdam.  When I left the dining-room, with an odd feeling that I had been supping exclusively on mustard and tea leaves, I stopped a moment at the parlor door.  A piano, harmoniously related to the dinner bell, tinkled responsive to a diffident and uncertain touch.  On the white wall the shadow of an old and sharp profile was bending over several symmetrical and shadowy curls.  “I sez to Mariar, Mariar, sez I, ’Praise to the face is open disgrace.’” I heard no more.  Dreading some susceptibility to sincere expression on the subject of female loveliness, I walked away, checking the compliment that otherwise might have risen unbidden to my lips, and have brought shame and sorrow to the household.