It is a two-story building, the rooms of which are small.
I
went to bed, I was about to say, without any supper. But that was not
so. I didn't get any supper, it is true, neither did I get a bed; for
they were all occupied. The spare room on the floor was also taken.
The proprietor, however, was accommodating, and gave me a sort of a
lounge in rather a small room where three or four other men, and a
dog, were sleeping on the floor. I fixed the door ajar for
ventilation, and with my overcoat snugly buttoned around me, though it
was not cold, addressed myself to sleep. In the morning I found that
one of the occupants was an ex-alderman from the fifth ward of New
York; and that in the room over me slept no less a personage than
Parker H. French. I say I ascertained these facts in the morning. Mr.
French came to Watab a few weeks ago with a company of mechanics, and
has been rushing the place ahead with great zeal. He appears to make a
good impression on the people of the town.
A heavy rain had fallen during the night; the stage was but moderately
loaded, and I started out from Watab, after breakfast the next
morning, in bright spirits. Still the road is level, and at a slow
trot the team makes better time than a casual observer is conscious
of.
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