poetic rhapsody on the part of the painter, or the yielding to
some meaningless convention, for in his person, Mr. Slosson
suggested none of those qualities of brain or heart that trenched
upon the lighter amenities of life. He was black-haired and
bull-necked, and there was about him a certain shagginess which a
recent toilet performed at the horse trough had not served to
mitigate.

"Howdy?" he drawled.

"Howdy?" responded Mr. Yancy.

"Shall you stop here?" asked Murrell, sinking his voice. Yancy
nodded. "Can you put us up?" inquired Murrell, turning to the
tavern-keeper.

"I reckon that's what I'm here for," said Slosson. Murrell
glanced about the empty yard. "Slack," observed Slosson
languidly. "Yes, sir, slack's the only name for it." It was
understood he referred to the state of trade. He looked from one
to the other of the two men. As his eyes rested on Murrell, that
gentleman raised the first three fingers of his right hand. The
gesture was ever so little, yet it seemed to have a tonic effect
on Mr. Slosson. What might have developed into a smile had he
not immediately suppressed it, twisted his bearded lips as he
made an answering movement. "Eph, come here, you!" Slosson
raised his voice. This call brought a half-grown black boy from
about a corner of the tavern, to whom Murrell relinquished his
horse.