Presently there drew up before the hotel a ramshackle buggy drawn by an animal that was undoubtedly still a horse. It was a very Methuselah among horses. The old man who rode in the buggy appeared comparatively youthful beside it. Jim smiled at the turnout, then frowned a trifle, for the old man was the same individual who had rebuffed him so bruskly at the depot.
“Hey!” called the old gentleman, without straightening himself from the amazing position in which he sat. “Hey, Dolf—Dolf Springer!”
“Eh?” the gentleman in the white socks grunted, sitting erect and gazing about him owlishly.
“Was you at the depot to see the six-o’clock come in, Dolf? Eh?”
“Calc’lated to be.”
“Anybody git off, Dolf? Anybody special?”
“Lafe Jenks and his wife, Mandy Williams, Tom Sweet, two travelin’-men—”
“Anybody special, Dolf? Eh?”
“Well, last to git down was Michael Moran, Judge.”
“Um! What become of him, Dolf? Happen to notice?”