Titusville was a settlement of about thirty or forty low wooden houses, none of them far from the river-front, and all seeming to cluster around and to depend upon an extensive one-story building, forming three sides of a square, and fronted by large and well-kept grounds, which stretched for two or three hundred feet to the river, where there was a pretty little wharf. This house was the hotel, and the only building of any size or pretension in the place.
As they came up to the wharf, they saw sitting on the extreme end of the platform a small man, with sandy hair, short trousers, no stockings, and cowhide shoes.
“I’ll bet the left ear of little Solomon,” said Adam, “that that’s the brother of John Brewer. There’s a kind o’ family likeness about him.”
The little man helped them to make the boat fast, and as he did so a smile of recognition seemed to flicker over his face.
“Are you John Brewer’s brother?” said Adam, when he landed.
“Yes,” said the other. “And that’s his boat, ain’t it?”
Adam replied that it was, and explained the arrangement that had been made.
“I’ve been a-waitin’ here for the mail-boat,” said the other, bringing out his words very slowly, “but now that this one’s here, I reckon I may as well take her.”
“Don’t you think you’d a great sight better take her?” said Adam. “I consider this a tip-top chance for you to get back comfortable and save money.”
“I reckon that’s so,” said the other. “Goin’ up to the hotel?”