Mr. Cassidy was not known by sight to the citizens of Hoyt's Corners, however well versed they might be in his numerous exploits of wisdom and folly. Therefore the habitues of Stevenson's Hotel did not recognize him in the gloomy and morose individual who dropped his saddle on the floor with a crash and stamped over to the three-legged table at dusk and surlily demanded shelter for the night.
“Gimme a bed an' something to eat,” he demanded, eyeing the three men seated with their chairs tilted against the wall. “Do I get 'em?” he asked, impatiently.
“You do,” replied a one-eyed man, lazily arising and approaching him. “One dollar, now.”
“An' take the rocks outen that bed—I want to sleep.”
“A dollar per for every rock you find,” grinned Stevenson, pleasantly. “There ain't no rocks in my beds,” he added.
“Some folks likes to be rocked to sleep,” facetiously remarked one of the pair by the wall, laughing contentedly at his own pun. He bore all the ear-marks of being regarded as the wit of the locality—every hamlet has one; I have seen some myself.
“Hee, hee, hee! Yo're a droll feller, Charley,” chuckled Old John Ferris, rubbing his ear with unconcealed delight. “That's a good un.”
“One drink, now,” growled Hopalong, mimicking the proprietor, and glaring savagely at the “droll feller” and his companion. “An' mind that it's a good one,” he admonished the host.
“It's better,” smiled Stevenson, whereat Old John crossed his legs and chuckled again. Stevenson winked.
“Riding long?” he asked.