Mr. Robinson, in his account of the conversation, said in confidence—­not wishing to be openly invidious—­that “he was dum’d if he wa’n’t almost sorry he hadn’t recommended the Lake House.”

It may be inferred from the foregoing that the first impression which our friend made on his arrival was not wholly in his favor, and Mr. Robinson’s conviction that he was “stuck up,” and a person bound to get himself “gen’ally disliked,” was elevated to an article of faith by his retiring to the rear of the vehicle, and quite out of ordinary range.  But they were nearly at their journey’s end, and presently the carryall drew up at the Eagle Hotel.

It was a frame building of three stories, with a covered veranda running the length of the front, from which two doors gave entrance—­one to the main hall, the other to the office and bar combined.  This was rather a large room, and was also to be entered from the main hall.

John’s luggage was deposited, Mr. Robinson was settled with, and took his departure without the amenities which might have prevailed under different conditions, and the new arrival made his way into the office.

Behind the bar counter, which faced the street, at one end of which was a small high desk and at the other a glazed case containing three or four partly full boxes of forlorn-looking cigars, but with most ambitious labels, stood the proprietor, manager, clerk, and what not of the hostelry, embodied in the single person of Mr. Amos Elright, who was leaning over the counter in conversation with three or four loungers who sat about the room with their chairs tipped back against the wall.

A sketch of Mr. Elright would have depicted a dull “complected” person of a tousled baldness, whose dispirited expression of countenance was enhanced by a chin whisker.  His shirt and collar gave unmistakable evidence that pajamas or other night-gear were regarded as superfluities, and his most conspicuous garment as he appeared behind the counter was a cardigan jacket of a frowsiness beyond compare.  A greasy neck scarf was embellished with a gem whose truthfulness was without pretence.  The atmosphere of the room was accounted for by a remark which was made by one of the loungers as John came in.  “Say, Ame,” the fellow drawled, “I guess the’ was more skunk cabbidge ’n pie plant ’n usual ‘n that last lot o’ cigars o’ your’n, wa’n’t the’?” to which insinuation “Ame” was spared the necessity of a rejoinder by our friend’s advent.

“Wa’al, guess we c’n give ye a room.  Oh, yes, you c’n register if you want to.  Where is the dum thing?  I seen it last week somewhere.  Oh, yes,” producing a thin book ruled for accounts from under the counter, “we don’t alwus use it,” he remarked—­which was obvious, seeing that the last entry was a month old.

John concluded that it was a useless formality.  “I should like something to eat,” he said, “and desire to go to my room while it is being prepared; and can you send my luggage up now?”