The young man knew nothing of old Jerry, so he carried his many changes of clothing, his silver-mounted toilet articles, and his books in his own hand. He stepped from the train almost before it stopped, anxious to secure for himself as good accommodations as were to be had, and asked of the amused station agent the location of the best hotel. The agent looked after his rapidly disappearing figure and winked at the baggage-man as if to say, "I wonder what he will think of it when he sees it!" When the young man reached the hotel, having stumbled and almost fallen on protruding bricks in the uneven pavement, the expression of weariness on his face changed to one of disgust. The hotel was small; its furnishings were poor and rickety; it was not clean; and it was saturated throughout with the odors of stale beer and stale cooking. To engage a room one must enter the bar-room and endure the scrutiny of half a dozen pairs of curious eyes peering out of dull, bloated faces. The young man set his bags down heavily and asked for the best room in the house. The landlord looked at him with a sour smile. "They're all pretty much alike." "Any with baths?" "No, sir." "Isn't this a college town?" "I believe they call it that." "Humph!" said the stranger. Then he wrote his name, "Evan Utterly, New York," in a square hand in the untidy, blotted register and the landlord gave him a key to Number Five. "First room at the head of the stairs. You can find it. Name's on the door." "Thank you," said Mr. Utterly. He intended to convey stern reproof by his tone so that the landlord should burn with mortification. But his tone was not reproving, it was exclamatory. His eyes had lifted to a picture hung above the dingy mirror behind the bar. It was a poor old English print, representing the arrival of the stage at an inn door. From the stage window leaned the head of a young girl, who looked with a frightened expression at the coarse face of the landlord, while a little dog barked furiously at the horses. The poor picture seemed to have some powerful fascination for the stranger. His tone became eager. "Did you ever hear of any one named Basil Everman?" he asked. "Never." "How long have you been here?" "Ten years." "Did you ever hear of any one by the name of Everman?" The landlord turned to wait upon the first of the advancing fathers. "Never," said he. Into the face of one of the loafers came a startled look. This was the lawyer, Bates, who had dulled a fine mind by dissipation and of whom little Eleanor Bent lived in terror. The mention of Basil Everman seemed to amaze him. His brow was for an instant furrowed as though he tried to concentrate all his powers of mind upon some long-past circumstance, but he was not able, at this hour of the day, to concentrate upon anything, and presently the fumes of liquor and tobacco and the warm summer air sent him back into the state of somnolence from which he had been roused.