crouching on the piazza. It did not stir, however, and he soon found

that it was only a stuffed skin. This cheerful invitation to the tavern

was the remains of a huge panther which had been killed in the region a

few weeks before. Philip examined his ugly visage and strong crooked

fore-arm, as he was waiting admittance, having pounded upon the door.

Yait a bit. I'll shoost--put on my trowsers," shouted a voice from the

window, and the door was soon opened by the yawning landlord.

"Morgen! Didn't hear d' drain oncet. Dem boys geeps me up zo spate.

Gom right in."

Philip was shown into a dirty bar-room. It was a small room, with a

stove in the middle, set in a long shallow box of sand, for the benefit

of the "spitters," a bar across one end--a mere counter with a sliding

glass-case behind it containing a few bottles having ambitious labels,

and a wash-sink in one corner. On the walls were the bright yellow and

black handbills of a traveling circus, with pictures of acrobats in human

pyramids, horses flying in long leaps through the air, and sylph-like

women in a paradisaic costume, balancing themselves upon the tips of

their toes on the bare backs of frantic and plunging steeds, and kissing

their hands to the spectators meanwhile.

As Philip did not desire a room at that hour, he was invited to wash

himself at the nasty sink, a feat somewhat easier than drying his face,

for the towel that hung in a roller over the sink was evidently as much a

309

The Gilded Age