“No,” said Layton, dryly.
“You 're a-lookin' for a saw-mill, I expect,” said another, with a keen glance as he spoke.
“Nor that, either,” was the answer.
“I have it,” broke in a third; “you 've got 'notions' in that box, there, but it won't do down here; we 've got too much bark to hew off before we come to such fixin's.”
“I suspect you are not nearer the mark than your friends, sir,” said Layton, still repressing the slightest show of impatience.
“What'll you lay, stranger, I don't hit it?” cried a tall, thin, bold-looking fellow, with long hair falling over his neck. “You're a preacher, ain't you? You're from the New England States, I 'll be bound. Say I 'm right, sir, for you know I am.”
“I must give it against you, sir, also,” said Layton, preserving his gravity with an effort that was not without difficulty. “I do not follow any one of the avocations you mention; but, in return for your five questions, may I make bold to ask one? Which is the hotel here?”
“It's yonder,” said the tall man, pointing to a large house, handsomely pillared, and overgrown with the luxuriant foliage of the red acanthus; “there it is. That's the Temple of Epicurus, as you see it a-written up. You ain't for speculatin' in that sort, are you?”
“No,” said Layton, quietly; “I was merely asking for a house of entertainment.”
“You 're a Britisher, I reckon,” said one of the former speakers; “that 's one of their words for meat and drink.”