The Hills of Refuge: A Novel

by Will N. Harben

The train moved on and disappeared in the distance. Charles sat down on a boulder. For a year past he had longed for just that sort of freedom, but, now that it was within his reach, it somehow lacked the charm he had expected. Suddenly he felt averse to the thought of sleeping in the room he had taken at the hotel. He wanted to lie on the grass there in the starlight, and greet the rising of the sun upon his new life. But he told himself that he had better go to the hotel. Not to occupy a room after engaging it might arouse suspicion, so he went back to the deserted square.

The clerk was behind the counter and gave him his key, "You was with the circus, wasn't you?" he asked.

"Yes, but how could you tell?" Charles answered.

"Oh, by your clothes," the young man replied. "All of you fellers look different from common folks, somehow; your hats, shirts, shoes ain't the sort we-all wear. Then you are as sunburnt as gipsies. You've quit 'em, I reckon!"

"Yes," Charles told him. "I'm going to try something else. I want to work on a farm if I can get a job."

"Easy enough, the Lord knows," said the clerk, smiling broadly. "Farm-hands are awfully scarce; niggers all moving off. Now I come to think of it, I heard to-day of a job that is open. Miss Mary Rowland is stopping here in the house now. In fact, I think she came in town to catch some of the floating labor brought in by the show. I know she didn't go to either performance. She is a friend of Mrs. Quinby, the wife of the feller that runs this hotel, and when she comes in town she always puts up with us. She is a fine girl and a hard worker. The Rowlands are one of our oldest and best families, but run down at the heel, between you and me. Her daddy lost a hand in the Civil War, and can't work himself. He's got two boys, and take it from me they are the limit. The wildest young bucks in seven states. The old man don't know how to handle 'em, and Miss Mary has give up trying. If she can keep 'em out o' jail she will be satisfied."

Not being in the mood to enjoy the clerk's gossip, Charles sought his room and went to bed. It was somewhat cooler now and he soon fell asleep. He was waked at nine o'clock by the sound of some enormous trunks being trundled into the sample-room set aside for the use of commercial travelers across the hall from his own chamber, and, rising hurriedly, he went down-stairs. He was quite hungry and afraid that he might be too late to be served with breakfast. The same clerk was on duty; he smiled and nodded.

"I kept your breakfast for you," he said. "The dining-room is closed, but we make exceptions once in a while. Walk right in—just give the door a shove. I'll go in the kitchen and have you waited on. You take coffee, I reckon?"

Charles said he did, and went into the big, many-tabled room adjoining the office. The clerk followed and passed into the kitchen through a screened door.

He appeared again in a moment. "It will be right in," he said. "You can set right here by the window. This seat ain't taken. We've got a lot of town boarders. It helps out, I'm here to state. They get a low cut rate by the month, but it brings in money in the long run. Say, you remember you said you were looking for a job on some farm? That young lady I was telling you about, Miss Mary Rowland, was at breakfast just now, and I told her about you. She was powerfully interested, for, between you and me, she is in a hole for want of labor out her way. She missed fire in every attempt she made yesterday. She trotted about town all day, and had to give it up. She begged me to see you. She went out about half an hour ago to do some trading at the dry-goods stores. She said tell you she'd be at Sandow & Lincoln's 'most all morning, and hoped you'd come in there. I'll tell you one thing—you will be treated right out there if you do go, and they will feed you aplenty and give you a clean bed to sleep in. You just tell her Sam Lee sent you—everybody about here knows Sam Lee—and if you just said 'Sam' it would do as well. I get up all the dances for the young folks here in this room. We shove the tables back ag'in' the wall, hire a nigger fiddler and guitar-picker, and have high old times at least once a month. You see Mrs. Quinby favors that because it makes a pile of drummers lie over here, and they pay the top rate. What do they care? Expense-account stretches to any size."