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.

It was with the memory of these experiences resting heavily upon me that
I stood hesitatingly before the stage door. The driver, about to mount,
was for a moment illuminated by the open door of the hotel. He had
the wearied look which was the distinguishing expression of Wingdam.
Satisfied that I was properly waybilled and receipted for, he took no