"Am I in the road to Stockton, and can I get there tonight?"

"You are in the road, but you will never find your way such a night as
this. It is ten good miles from here; you have several bridges to cross
--you had better stop at the first house you come to, about half a mile
ahead. I am going to strike camp myself."

I thanked my adviser, and went on, hearing the sound of the tinkling
bells, but unable to see any thing. In a little while I saw a light
ahead, and was glad to see it. Driving up in front and halting, I
repeated the traveler's "halloo" several times, and at last got a
response in a hoarse, gruff voice.

"I am belated on my way to Stockton, and am cold, and tired, and hungry.
Can I get shelter with you for the night?"

"You may try it, if you want to," answered the unmusical voice abruptly.

In a few moments a man appeared to take the horse, and taking my satchel
in hand, I went into the house. The first thing that struck my attention
on entering the room was a big log-fire, which I was glad to see, for I
was wet and very cold. Taking a chair in the corner, I looked around.
The scene that presented itself was not reassuring. The main feature of
the room was a bar, with an ample supply of barrels, demijohns, bottles,
tumblers, and all the et ceteras. Behind the counter stood the
proprietor, a burly fellow with a buffalo-neck, fair skin and blue eyes,
with a frightful scar across his left under-jaw and neck; his
shirt-collar was open, exposing, a huge chest, and his sleeves were
rolled up above the elbows. I noticed also that one of his hands was