plodding through the dust that rolled about the harrows. For all that,
he knitted his brows as his light wagon lurched past the Chinese laundry
and the poolroom in the next block. The place looked mean and shabby in
the strong sunlight, and, with feelings he had thought dead re-awaking,
he was conscious of a sharp distaste. There was a choice he must shortly
make, and he knew what it would cost to take the line that might be
forced on him.

It was with a certain shrinking he stopped his team in front of the
hotel. The bare windows were open and the door was hooked back, so that
one could see into the hall, where a row of tin wash-basins stood on
a shelf. Dirty towels were scattered about, and the boarded floor was
splashed. The veranda, on to which the hall opened, was strewn with
cigar-ends and burnt matches, and occupied by a row of cheap wooden
chairs. Above the door was painted _The Keller House_. The grocery in
the next block, and the poolroom, bore the same owner's name.

When Charnock stopped, a man without a coat and with the sleeves of his
fine white shirt rolled up came out. He as rather an old man and
his movements were slack; his face was hard, but on the whole
expressionless.

"Hallo!" he said. "Late again! The others have pulled out a quarter of
an hour since."

"I saw them," Charnock answered with a languid hint of meaning. "Didn't
want to join the procession and thought they might load up my rig if I
got here on time."

Keller looked hard at him, as if he understood, and then asked: "Want a