Poke Drury, in his big general room again, stood staring with troubled face at the other men.  With common consent and to the last man of them they had already tiptoed to the register and were seeking to inform themselves as to the name and habitat of the prettiest girl who had ever found herself within the four walls of Poke Drury’s road house.

“Nice name,” offered old man Adams whose curiosity had kept stride with his years and who, lacking all youthful hesitation, had been first to get to the book.  “Kind of stylish soundin’.  But, Hill’s Corners?” He shook his head.  “I ain’t been to the Corners for a right smart spell, but I didn’t know such as her lived there.”

“They don’t,” growled the heavy set man who had snatched the register from old man Adams’ fingers.  “An’ I been there recent.  Only last week.  The Corners ain’t so all-fired big as a female like her is goin’ to be livin’ there an’ it not be knowed all over.”

Poke Drury descended upon them, jerked the book away and with a screwed up face and many gestures toward the kitchen recalled to them that a flimsy partition, though it may shut out the vision, is hardly to be counted on to stop the passage of an unguarded voice.

“Step down this way, gents,” he said tactfully.  “Where the bar is.  Bein’ it’s a right winterish sort of night I don’t reckon a little drop o’ kindness would go bad, huh?  Name your poison, gents.  It’s on me.”

In her corner just beyond the flimsy partition, Winifred Waverly, of Hill’s Corners or elsewhere, drew the many coloured patch work quilt about her and shivered again.

CHAPTER II

THE DEVIL’S OWN NIGHT

Hap Smith, the last to come in, opened the front door which the wind snatched from his hands and slammed violently against the wall.  In the sudden draft the old newspapers on one of the oil-cloth covered tables went flying across the room, while the rain drove in and blackened the floor.  Hap Smith got the door shut and for a moment stood with his back against it, his two mail bags, a lean and a fat, tied together and flung over his shoulder, while he smote his hands together and laughed.

“A night for the devil to go skylarkin’ in!” he cried jovially.  “A night for murder an’ arson an’ robbin’ graveyards!  Listen to her, boys!  Hear her roar!  Poke Drury, I’m tellin’ you, I’m glad your shack’s right where it is instead of seventeen miles fu’ther on.  An’ ...  Where’s the girl?” He had swept the room with his roving eye; now, dropping his voice a little he came on down the room and to the bar.  “Gone to bed?”

As one thoroughly at home here he went for a moment behind the bar, dropped the bags into a corner for safety and threw off his heavy outer coat, frankly exposing the big revolver which dragged openly at his right hip.  Bill Varney had always carried a rifle and had been unable to avail himself of it in time; Hap Smith in assuming the responsibilities of the United States Mail had forthwith invested heavily of his cash on hand for a Colt forty-five and wore it frankly in the open.  His, by the way, was the only gun in sight, although there were perhaps a half dozen in the room.