"About a fortnight ago," said Murrell. "Every one approves of
your action in this matter, Yancy," he went on.

"That's kind of them," responded Yancy, a little dryly. There
was no reason for it, but he was becoming distrustful of Murrell,
and uneasy.

"Bladen's hurt himself by the stand he's taken it this matter,"
Murrell added.

They went forward in silence, Yancy brooding and suspicious. For
the last mile or so their way had led through an unbroken forest,
but a sudden turn in the road brought them to the edge of an
extensive clearing. Close to the road were several buildings,
but not a tree had been spared to shelter them and they stood
forth starkly, the completing touch to a civilization that was
still in its youth, unkempt, rather savage, and ruthlessly
utilitarian. A sign, the work of inexpert hands, announced the
somewhat dingy structure of hewn logs that stood nearest the
roadside a tavern. There was a horse rack in front of it and a
trampled space. It was flanked by its several sheds and barns on
one hand and a woodpile on the other. Beyond the woodpile a rail
fence inclosed a corn-field, and beyond the barns and sheds a
similar fence defined the bounds of a stumpy pasture-lot.

From the door of the tavern the figure of a man emerged. Pausing
by the horse rack he surveyed the two men and boy, if not with
indifference, at least with apathy. Just above his head swung
the sign with its legend, Slosson--Entertainment;" but if he were
Slosson, one could take the last half of the sign either as a