"Who air you?"
The tone of his voice, querulous and lamenting, rather implied, "Why don't you let me alone?"
"I am a traveller," I answered, "bound from Peoria to Bloomington, and have lost my way. It is dark, as you know, and likely to rain, and I don't see how I can get any farther to-night."
Another pause. Then he said, slowly, as if speaking to himself,—
"There a'n't no other place nearer 'n four or five mile."
"Then I hope you will let me stay here."
The answer, to my surprise, was a deep sigh.
"I am used to roughing it," I urged; "and besides, I will pay for any trouble I may give you."
"It a'n't that," said he; then added, hesitatingly,—"fact is, we're lonesome people here,—don't often see strangers; yit I s'pose you can't go no furder;—well, I'll talk to my wife."
Therewith he entered the shanty, leaving me a little disconcerted with so uncertain, not to say suspicious, a reception. I heard the sound of voices—one of them unmistakable in its nasal shrillness—in what seemed to be a harsh debate, and distinguished the words, "I didn't bring it on," followed with, "Tell him, then, if you like, and let him stay,"—which seemed to settle the matter. The door presently opened, and the man said,—