From the door of the tavern the figure of a man emerged. Pausing by the horse rack he surveyed the two men and boy, if not with indifference, at least with apathy. Just above his head swung the sign with its legend, “Slosson--Entertainment”; but if he were Slosson, one could take the last half of the sign either as a poetic rhapsody on the part of the painter, or the yielding to some meaningless convention, for in his person, Mr. Slosson suggested none of those qualities of brain or heart that trenched upon the lighter amenities of life. He was black-haired and bull-necked, and there was about him a certain shagginess which a recent toilet performed at the horse trough had not served to mitigate. “Howdy?” he drawled. “Howdy?” responded Mr. Yancy. “Shall you stop here?” asked Murrell, sinking his voice. Yancy nodded. “Can you put us up?” inquired Murrell, turning to the tavern-keeper. “I reckon that's what I'm here for,” said Slosson. Murrell glanced about the empty yard. “Slack,” observed Slosson languidly. “Yes, sir, slack's the only name for it.” It was understood he referred to the state of trade. He looked from one to the other of the two men. As his eyes rested on Murrell, that gentleman raised the first three fingers of his right hand. The gesture was ever so little, yet it seemed to have a tonic effect on Mr. Slosson. What might have developed into a smile had he not immediately suppressed it, twisted his bearded lips as he made an answering movement. “Eph, come here, you!” Slosson raised his voice. This call brought a half-grown black boy from about a corner of the tavern, to whom Murrell relinquished his horse. “Let's liquor,” said the captain over his shoulder, moving off in the direction of the bar. “Come on, Nevvy!” said Yancy following, and they all entered the tavern. “Well, here's to the best of good luck!” said Murrell, as he raised his glass to his lips. “Same here,” responded Yancy. Murrell pulled out a roll of bills, one of which he tossed on the bar. Then after a moment's hesitation he detached a second bill from the roll and turned to Hannibal. “Here, youngster--a present for you;” he said good-naturedly. Hannibal, embarrassed by the unexpected gift, edged to his Uncle Bob's side. “Ain't you-all got nothing to say to the gentleman?” asked Yancy. “Thank you, sir,” said the boy. “That sounds a heap better. Let's see--why, if it ain't ten dollars--think of that!” said Yancy, in surprise. “Let's have another drink,” suggested Murrell.