Just before the stage—a covered wagon drawn by two Indian ponies—reached the Jacobs House a young man crossed the street and entered the door. Some men are born with a presence that other men must recognize everywhere. To this man’s quiet, “Hello, gentlemen,” the crowd responded, almost to a man:
“Good morning, Doctor.”
“Hello, Carey.”
“Hello, Doc.”
Each man felt the wish to be recognized by such greeting, and a place was given him at once. Only Champers, the big man, turned away with a scowl.
“Always gets the best of everything, even to the first chance to get his mail,” he muttered under his breath.
But the mail was soon of secondary interest to the 61 dealer in real estate. Letters were of less importance to him than strangers, and a stranger had registered at the desk and was waiting while Stewart called out the mail in the postoffice department. Champers leaned over the shoulders of shorter men to read the entry in a cramped little hand, the plain name, “Thomas Smith, Wilmington, Delaware.” Then he looked at the man and drew his own conclusions.
Dr. Carey was standing beside the letter counter when Todd Stewart read out, “‘Mr. James Shirley,’” and, with a little scrutiny—“‘Southwest of Carey’s Crossing.’ Anybody here know Mr. James Shirley?”
The stranger made a hasty step forward, but Dr. Carey had already taken the letter.
“I’ll take care of that for you, Stewart,” he said quietly. And turning, he looked into the eyes of the stranger.