Bees' Hill was a new lumber settlement where there were two mills, three inns, a number of stores, and a post-office. The bar-room was crowded with brawny mill-hands from across the border, in varying stages of intoxication. The inn itself was full of the reek of cheap tobacco and the sound of cheaper oaths. The most offensive in the crowd were of the new generation of back-country Americans. Their boastfulness and profanity were in full flood. They used the sacred names with a cheerful, glib familiarity, as if they were only saying "Bill" or "Joe."
The town had begun to ruin the woodsman as well as the woods.
Here were some of the sons of the pioneers—mostly "guides" and choremen of abundant leisure. Every day they were "dressed up," and sat about the inn like one who patiently tries his luck at a fishing-hole. They had discovered themselves and were like a child with its first doll. They had, as it were, torn themselves apart and put themselves together again. They had experimented with cologne, hair-oil, poker, colored neckties, hotel fare, and execrable whiskey. They were in love with pleasure and had sublime faith in luck. They spent their time looking and listening and talking and primping and dreaming of sudden wealth and kitchen-maids.
Strong and Master stood a moment looking at a noisy company of youths at the bar.
"They speak of the President by his first name, and are rather free with the Creator," said Master.
"J-jus' little mehoppers," Strong remarked, with a look of pity. In his speech a conceited fellow, who spoke too frequently of himself, was always a "mehopper."
"Large heads!" Master exclaimed, as he turned away.
"Like a b-balsam," Strong stammered. "B-big top an' little r-roots."
"And they can't stand against the wind," said Master.
Before he went to bed the Emperor made these entries in his memorandum-book: