It was a good little town, and Eliph' Hewlitt was pleased.
On one of the corners of Main Street stood the Kilo Hotel, and before it Eliph' checked the slow gait of Irontail.
Jim Wilkins, the landlord, tipped his chair forward, and got out of it with a grunt of laziness.
“Hotel running?” asked Eliph' Hewlitt briskly.
“You might call it runnin' if you wasn't dictionary—particular what you called it,” said the landlord. “If you had to keep it you'd more likely say it was tryin' to learn to walk. But it's open for business. Want your rig put up?”
“Yes,” admitted Eliph'. “I've had my supper.”
“That's all right,” said the landlord cheerfully. “I'm sort of glad of it; save the old lady gittin' up a meal. I was just tellin' Pap Briggs here that I figgered Kilo had the hottest mean summer temperature, and the meanest hot summer temperature on earth, and it's hotter over a kitchen stove than anywheres else. We generally have cold suppers in this here hotel, unless some guest happens in. Hey, S. Potts! Come here and git this feller's horse!”
The livery stable was convenient, just around the corner on Cross Street, and S. Potts came lankly and lazily around the corner. He stood and looked at Irontail a minute critically, and then felt the horse's hocks and shook his head at the result of his investigation. Then he opened Irontail's mouth and looked at his teeth.
“Well, I'll be hanged!” he said, and he called around the corner, “Hey, Daniel!” and from the livery stable came a very old man.
“Look at this,” said S. Potts, opening Irontail's mouth again, and Daniel looked and shook his head, as S. Potts had done.