Lyon consulted his map and his pocket compass, and found that directly in their line lay the small village of Oakville, nestled in an unfrequented pass of the mountains.
“We can reach the place at about ten o’clock this evening, and there we can get a regular supper and good sleep,” he said to his wife.
And they travelled all the remainder of that day, and at about half-past nine they arrived at Oakville. The village was off the public road, and consisted only of a sleepy old tavern, to which the neighboring farmers came to drink, smoke, and gossip; a post-office, to which the mail was brought once a week by a boy on horseback; and a blacksmith shop, patronized by the sparse population of the immediate neighborhood.
Up before the stable of this old tavern Lyon Berners drove his wagon; and here he alighted, handed out Sybil, and led her over to the house and into the public parlor.
A fat and lazy-looking hostess came to look at them.
“I want accommodations for myself, my girl here, and my horses and wagon, which I left in the stable yard,” said Mr. Berners, speaking coarsely, with two lumps of liquorice in his mouth, which he had taken to disguise his voice.
“And what might your name be, farmer?” inquired the landlady.
“My name’s Howe,” answered Lyon, truly, giving his own patronymic, now his middle name.
“Well, farmer, I reckon we can accommodate you. Going to market?”
“Yes, we’re on our way to market.”