“I reckon so,” he answered, but did not rise.

I turned, and walked a few paces toward the door, and then walked back again.

“I’d like to get a room,” said I.

The man got up slowly, and going to a desk, fumbled about it for a while.  At length he brought out an old, dilapidated bank-book, and throwing it open on the counter, asked me, with an indifferent manner, to write down my name.

“I’ll take a pen, if you please.”

“Oh, yes!” And he hunted about again in the desk, from which, after a while, he brought forth the blackened stump of a quill, and pushed it toward me across the counter.

“Ink,” said I—­fixing my eyes upon him with a look of displeasure.

“I don’t believe there is any,” he muttered.  “Frank,” and he called the landlord’s son, going to the door behind the bar as he did so.

“What d’ye want?” a rough, ill-natured voice answered.

“Where’s the ink?”

“Don’t know anything about it.”

“You had it last.  What did you do with it?”

“Nothing!” was growled back.

“Well, I wish you’d find it.”

“Find it yourself, and—­” I cannot repeat the profane language he used.

“Never mind,” said I.  “A pencil will do just as well.”  And I drew one from my pocket.  The attempt to write with this, on the begrimed and greasy page of the register, was only partially successful.  It would have puzzled almost any one to make out the name.  From the date of the last entry, it appeared that mine was the first arrival, for over a week, of any person desiring a room.

As I finished writing my name, Frank came stalking in, with a cigar in his mouth, and a cloud of smoke around his head.  He had grown into a stout man—­though his face presented little that was manly, in the true sense of the word.  He was disgustingly sensual.  On seeing me, a slight flush tinged his cheeks.

“How do you do?” he said, offering me his hand.  “Peter,”—­he turned to the lazy-looking bar-keeper—­“tell Jane to have No. 11 put in order for a gentleman immediately, and tell her to be sure and change the bed linen.”

“Things look rather dull here,” I remarked, as the bar-keeper went out to do as he had been directed.

“Rather; it’s a dull place, anyhow.”

“How is your mother?” I inquired.

A slight, troubled look came into his face, as he answered: 

“No better.”

“She’s sick, then?”

“Yes; she’s been sick a good while; and I’m afraid will never be much better.”  His manner was not altogether cold and indifferent, but there was a want of feeling in his voice.

“Is she at home?”

“No, sir.”

As he showed no inclination to say more on the subject, I asked no further questions, and he soon found occasion to leave me.