"What is the name of this place?"
"Some folks call it Hardscrabble; but the real name is Jackson."
"Where does Mr. Huxter live?"
"Up the road apiece. I go right by the gate. I'll stop and leave you there."
A little less than a mile further the driver reined up his horses.
"Here you are," he said. "Now look sharp, for I'm behind time."
With some difficulty Mr. Huxter, who had now become quite drowsy, was made to understand that he had reached home. With still greater difficulty, he was assisted in safety to the ground, and the stage drove on.
John now for the first time looked about him to see what sort of a place he had reached. He distinguished a two-story house, old-fashioned in appearance, standing a few rods back from the road. It was sadly in need of a fresh coat of paint, as was also the fence which surrounded it. A little distance from the house, at one side, was a small building of one story, liberally supplied with windows, which John afterwards learned to be a shoe-shop. It was Mr. Huxter's place of business, when he saw fit to work, which was by no means regularly. An old cart, a wood-pile, and some barrels littered up the front yard. A field alongside was overgrown with weeds, and everything indicated shiftlessness and neglect.
John had no difficulty in opening the front gate, for it hung upon one hinge, and was never shut. He supported Mr. Huxter to the door and knocked, for there was no bell. The summons was answered by a girl of ten, in a dirty calico dress and dishevelled hair.