Crookstown could not boast of half a dozen houses besides the station.

Another hour's journey brought us to Fisher's Landing, on Red Lake River,
where we were to remain until next morning. Although the boat was at the
landing, we were not allowed to go on board until all the freight was
shipped. This intelligence was given us by a rakish-looking Yankee, who
added that his "_Ho_-tel" was the best in the place, and if we would
come "right along" he would give us rooms for the night. Gathering up our
traps, and thinking we could not do much worse than remain in the crowded
car all night, we followed, paddling through the mud to the much-boasted
"_Ho_-tel." This was a house built of boards, the entrance room or
office having a high desk or counter across one corner; a recess under
the stairs in the other containing a bench, on which were ranged two or
three pails and a basin, while on the wall hung the general towel,
looking rather the worse for wear. A room opening from the recess had a
table set like the one at Crookstown, apparently for breakfast; the
floors were literally covered with mud. What, we surmised, can the
bedrooms be like in such a place? Our question was only too soon
answered. Presently a shaggy-headed, untidy woman made her appearance,
hastily fastening her clothes. She was very cross, and grumbled that
there were only two rooms, but that she would take one of us in with her
(an offer which was politely declined), and snappishly ordered a man to
show the way upstairs. Clambering up a steep flight of steps after our
conductor and his lantern, we were ushered into a room containing a
bed--which had all the appearance of having been slept in for a week--a
rocking-chair, and a bureau; a smaller room opening out of it also
contained a very-much-slept-in bed. Throwing open the door of the latter
room with a flourish that would have been creditable in a professional
showman, he introduced us.