“Well, I guess you're all right then.”
“There is a hotel, I suppose?” said Stephen.
His question moved his companion to something like enthusiasm.
“You bet there is—the Metropolitan—Jim Youtsey runs it; it's the best place in three counties to get a square meal of well-cooked vittles!”
“The town is very new?” suggested Stephen.
“As new as a two day's beard,” agreed the driver.
“But a thriving, growing place.”
“A perfect mushroom.”
Just at sundown Stephen caught his first glimpse of Grant City; a huddle of houses on a slight eminence; and as they drew nearer he saw that these houses were mostly unpainted frame structures that straggled along two sides of a dusty country road, their rear doors and back-yards boldly facing the wide-flung prairie.
The coach drew up in front of the largest building in the place. It gave out a pleasant odour as of new pine and clean shavings; across its front was hung a large sign which announced it to be the Metropolitan Hotel.