“Humph! here is somebody’s home, but a very poor one,” thought Matt. “I shouldn’t wonder but those inside got a pretty good soaking, by the looks of things.”
At first the young auctioneer determined to stop, but upon second thought, he concluded to go on, satisfied that no accommodations worthy of the name could be had there.
“If I can’t strike something better, I’ll keep right on to High Bridge,” was his thought, and he was just about to urge Billy on once more, when the door of the shanty opened and a man came out.
The man was apparently fifty years of age, and rough in looks. His beard was long, as was also his hair, and both seemed to be much in need of shears and brush. His clothing and his face were 138 dirty, and altogether he presented a decidedly ill-favored appearance.
“Hullo, there, stranger!” he called out. “Where bound?”
“Bound for High Bridge,” replied Matt as he drew rein. “How many miles is it?”
“Not many,” was the rather indefinite reply. “Suppose you got cotched in that storm, eh?”
“Yes, I got the full benefit of it.”
“It was a heavy one, no mistake about that. What sort of a turn-out have you got there?”
“An auction goods wagon.”