“Mr. Fox and I have so much to go over this afternoon,” said he, “that I don’t believe I’ll have time to show you.  Just look around a little.”

On the porch outside Bob paused.  After a moment he became aware of a figure at his elbow.  He turned to see old Jim Tally bent over to light his pipe behind the mahogany of his curved hand.

“Want to take in Marion, bub?” he enquired.

“Sure!” cried Bob heartily, surprised at this mark of favour.

“Come on then,” said the old riverman, “the lightning express is gettin’ anxious for us.”

VII

They tramped to the station and boarded the single passenger car of the accommodation.  There they selected a forward seat and waited patiently for the freight-handling to finish and for the leisurely puffing little engine to move on.  An hour later they descended at Marion.  The journey had been made in an almost absolute silence.  Tally stared straight ahead, and sucked at his little pipe.  To him, apparently, the journey was merely something to be endured; and he relapsed into that patient absent-mindedness developed among those who have to wait on forces that will not be hurried.  Bob’s remarks he answered in monosyllables.  When the train pulled into the station, Tally immediately arose, as though released by a spring.

Bob’s impressions of Marion were of great mills and sawdust-burners along a wide river; of broad, sawdust-covered streets; of a single block of good, brick stores on a main thoroughfare which almost immediately petered out into the vilest and most ramshackle frame “joints”; of wide side streets flanked by small, painted houses in yards, some very neat indeed.  Tally walked rapidly by the respectable business blocks, but pushed into the first of the unkempt frame saloons beyond.  Bob followed close at his heels.  He found himself in a cheap bar-room, its paint and varnish scarred and marred, its floor sawdust-covered, its centre occupied by a huge stove, its walls decorated by several pictures of the nude.

Four men were playing cards at an old round table, hacked and bruised and blackened by time.  One of them was the barkeeper, a burly individual with black hair plastered in a “lick” across his forehead.  He pushed back his chair and ducked behind the bar, whence he greeted the newcomers.  Tally proffered a question.  The barkeeper relaxed from his professional attitude, and leaned both elbows on the bar.  The two conversed for a moment; then Tally nodded briefly and went out.  Bob followed.

This performance was repeated down the length of the street.  The stage-settings varied little; same oblong, painted rooms; same varnished bars down one side; same mirrors and bottles behind them; same sawdust-strewn floors; same pictures on the walls; same obscure, back rooms; same sleepy card games by the same burly but sodden type of men.  This was the off season.  Profits were now as slight as later they would be heavy.  Tim talked with the barkeepers low-voiced, nodded and went out.  Only when he had systematically worked both sides of the street did he say anything to his companion.