"There's many like them in the world, Tom. They are like lions, going about seeking whom they may devour."
St. Joseph could not at that time boast any first-class hotels. Inns and lodging-houses it had in plenty. At one of these—a two-story building, dignified by the title of "The Pacific Hotel"—our hero and his Scotch friend found accommodations. They were charged two dollars and a half per day—the same price they charged at first-class hotels in New York and Boston, while their rooms and fare were very far from luxurious. The landlord was a stout, jolly host, with a round, good-natured face.
"You and your son will room together, I suppose," he said.
"He isn't my son, but a young friend of mine," said Mr. Ferguson.
"I thought he didn't look much like you," said the landlord.
"I am hard and weather-beaten, while he is young and fresh."
"Well, gentlemen, I wish you both good luck. What will you take? I have a superior article of whisky that I can recommend."
"Thank you, but I beg you will excuse me, sir," said Ferguson. "I never drink."
"Nor I," said Tom; "but I am much obliged to you all the same."
"Well, that beats me," said the landlord. "Why, you don't know what's good. You ain't a minister, are you?" turning to Ferguson.