From the sidewalk he heard the vigorous sounds of a one-sided altercation punctuated by frequent bursts of quickly silenced laughter. Evidently some one was very angry, and the rest amused. After a moment Thorpe imagined he recognized the excited voice. So he pushed open the swinging screen door and entered. The place was typical. Across one side ran the hard-wood bar with foot-rest and little towels hung in metal clasps under its edge. Behind it was a long mirror, a symmetrical pile of glasses, a number of plain or ornamental bottles, and a miniature keg or so of porcelain containing the finer whiskys and brandies. The bar-keeper drew beer from two pumps immediately in front of him, and rinsed glasses in some sort of a sink under the edge of the bar. The center of the room was occupied by a tremendous stove capable of burning whole logs of cordwood. A stovepipe led from the stove here and there in wire suspension to a final exit near the other corner. On the wall were two sporting chromos, and a good variety of lithographed calendars and illuminated tin signs advertising beers and spirits. The floor was liberally sprinkled with damp sawdust, and was occupied, besides the stove, by a number of wooden chairs and a single round table. The latter, a clumsy heavy affair beyond the strength of an ordinary man, was being deftly interposed between himself and the attacks of the possessor of the angry voice by a gigantic young riverman in the conventional stagged (i.e., chopped off) trousers, “cork” shoes, and broad belt typical of his craft. In the aggressor Thorpe recognized old Jackson Hines. “Damn you!” cried the old man, qualifying the oath, “let me get at you, you great big sock-stealer, I'll make you hop high! I'll snatch you bald-headed so quick that you'll think you never had any hair!” “I'll settle with you in the morning, Jackson,” laughed the riverman. “You want to eat a good breakfast, then, because you won't have no appetite for dinner.” The men roared, with encouraging calls. The riverman put on a ludicrous appearance of offended dignity. “Oh, you needn't swell up like a poisoned pup!” cried old Jackson plaintively, ceasing his attacks from sheer weariness. “You know you're as safe as a cow tied to a brick wall behind that table.” Thorpe seized the opportunity to approach. “Hello, Jackson,” said he. The old man peered at him out of the blur of his excitement. “Don't you know me?” inquired Thorpe. “Them lamps gives 'bout as much light as a piece of chalk,” complained Jackson testily. “Knows you? You bet I do! How are you, Harry? Where you been keepin' yourself? You look 'bout as fat as a stall-fed knittin' needle.” “I've been landlooking in the upper peninsula,” explained Thorpe, “on the Ossawinamakee, up in the Marquette country.” “Sho'” commented Jackson in wonder, “way up there where the moon changes!”