"Where to now?" he muttered again. "This is as far as the
railroad goes, an' it won' do for me to stay in a town yet a while; no,
it won' do. I got to clear out. Where to? That's the word, where to?
I'll go down to supper now"--He went on whispering his thoughts aloud,
so that they would take more concrete shape in his mind--"I'll go down
to supper now, an' then I'll hang aroun' the bar this evening till I get
the lay of this land. Maybe this is fruit country, though it looks more
like a cattle country. Maybe it's a mining country. If it's a mining
country," he continued, puckering his heavy eyebrows, "if it's a mining
country, an' the mines are far enough off the roads, maybe I'd better
get to the mines an' lay quiet for a month before I try to get any
farther south."
He washed the cinders and dust of a week's railroading from his face
and hair, put on a fresh pair of boots, and went down to supper. The
dining-room was of the invariable type of the smaller interior towns
of California. There was but one table, covered with oilcloth; rows of
benches answered for chairs; a railroad map, a chromo with a gilt
frame protected by mosquito netting, hung on the walls, together with a
yellowed photograph of the proprietor in Masonic regalia.
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