I explained, that I was going to the Jackson House, where a friend was to meet me.
"The Jackson House! That's head-quarters for news, just now. All right. You looked as if you wanted to stop."
"I thought of stopping for a moment. I heard on the road that there had been some sort of disturbance in your town yesterday. Is all quiet now?"
"For aught I know."
"I heard there was a boy shot here yesterday."
"A boy?"
"A runaway."
"One of our waiters brought down such a story last night. They are sharp after news of their own. I told him 'twas wholesome, if it turned out so. But this morning it comes that it was the man who was running him off that was shot. You'll hear all about it at the Jackson. If you come back this way, stop and give me a word. I can't leave."
There were a number of men on the piazza of the Jackson House. Most of them had the air of habitual loungers; a few were evidently travellers newly arrived. Not a figure that even from a distance I could take for Harry Dudley. Some trunks and valises were waiting to be carried in, but I saw nothing familiar. I recognized the landlord in a man who was leaning against a pillar, smoking. He did not come forward, or even raise his eyes, when I rode up. I bade him good-morning, addressing him by name. He came forward a little,—bowed in answer to my salutation, but did not speak.
"Is Mr. Dudley here?"