the quality and number both frayed out until off toward the jack pine which grew thinly over the country were the weather-beaten tar-paper houses of the Michigan pine barrens.
One other passenger had arrived with John, he noticed, when halfway across the street. This was a big man with a broad-brimmed hat, an unbuttoned coat, showing a heavy watch chain and charm. His eyes were blue and sunny, his skin rough and red, mouth large. He emanated good nature and when he said by way of greeting, "We should grab the worm this morning, neighbor," John grinned and remarked that they were early enough.
No one was astir on the street, though every chimney belched breakfast smoke. Within the office of the Commercial House a gaunt man, smoking a pale cigar, was putting wood in the base burner as John and his companion entered.
"Hello, Jim," he said to the big man, coughing from his cigar smoke.
"Morning, Henry. Every little thing settin' pretty?"
"Sure is."
Henry rattled the stove dampers, while Jim dropped his bag and walked behind the desk. John noticed that this fixture was a portion of an old bar and that the floor before it was pitted with innumerable fine holes, the marks left by boots of rivermen, gone now, like the timber and the saloons. Jim took a packet of letters from a shelf behind the desk and rummaged through them, sorting those that were for him. Then he retired to a chair by the stove and began opening envelopes. The proprietor—the man with the cigar—went behind the desk, slapping his hands together to cleanse them.
