In the first lighted house there was a woman who would not open to me. . . .
Modestine was led away by a layman to the stables, and I and my pack were received into our Lady of the Snows.
Having been directed on the road to Pittsford, a town seven miles beyond, we tramped wearily on, battling with the elements as best we could until midnight, when almost numb with cold, I resolved to seek refuge in a small hamlet we were nearing, called Bushnell Basin. I was told it contained a tavern which would accommodate us, in an emergency. But it was so dark when we reached Bushnell that I could not see the Basin. Its dozen dusky-looking shanties seemed to be deserted, and when I saw a boy crossing the road I was too surprised to hail him. Mac brayed, and the lad stopped. I asked him where the hotel was. He directed me toward a dim light, and disappeared. We pushed on, but the light was extinguished before we could reach the house. I called loudly to the landlord to let me in; I rapped on the door desperately, and repeated my yells. A dog in the house barked savagely; then Mac began to bray, and I wondered that nobody entered a protest against such a disturbance. At length, a squeaky female voice called from an upstairs window:
"Who be ye?"
"A man," I answered, civilly.
"What kind of a man?"
"A gentleman," I said, with emphasis.
"What's that thing yer got with ye?"
I was afraid she'd catch cold in the opened window, if she was in her nightdress, but I replied in a voice of a siren, "A jackass."