There was little direct communication between the homes, partly because the weeds overhung the pig-trails of travel; partly because it was about a Sabbath-day’s journey from each house to its nearest neighbor; partly because all paths led to or through the depot yard, as the literal and figurative center of the hamlet. The railway station was at once the market, the park, the amusement hall, the shipping center, the business section, the social resort, the lounging place, the nursery and playground of all Montvale. The railway track, with the path beside it, was the main and only street of the “place.” Just as the traveler was wondering if they were going to tramp down to the next station, the leader said, “Out this hyer way,” turning off to the right, through a sea of white-topped weeds. The rain was still falling, and night had come on. A few pale rays of the moon, struggling through the clouds, showed the boys’ heads now and then bobbing above the watery weeds, like porpoises at play on the surface of the ocean. At last, the little procession reached a plank fence with a gap in it. The boys stopped, confronted the traveler, and the leader said, “_This_ is the finest hotel anywhar about hyer.” “Where?” the stranger asked. “Right yander—go through this gate,” tapping with his hand a piece of frame-work standing across the path. The boys took the proffered pay, dropped it into their pockets, thrust their hands down to keep it from getting out, and plunged again into the depths of the weedy sea. The traveler peered through the rain and fog into the yard, where the weeds had lost so much of their stature that he thought he must be nearing the shore. He picked up the gate leaning across the path, from panel to panel of the fence, and set it out of the way, remarking, “Everything about here is off its hinges—I’m nearly off myself.” He approached the “hotel,” consisting mostly of “boxed” lean-to, and rested one foot upon the sill of the shed—by courtesy known as the “porch.” He paused; in the language of eastern railway danger signs, he thought he would “Stop, Look and Listen.” Silence and the clouds reigned. No sound but the patter of the drops on the roof. No light gleamed from the skimpy window, nor crept through the generous cracks in the wall. He rapped at the door; no answer. He rapped again—louder; still no answer. There must be nobody at home in “the finest hotel.” So he hammered the rickety, raky, crazy shutter just because there wasn’t, till it shook, rattled and shivered, and the boards on the rear wall creaked and groaned in sympathy. A cracked, rasping, whining voice from the inner depths called out, “Well!” “Madam”—for that voice could belong to none but a crone—“I want to get to stay over night.”