But my mysterious
companion took the matter out of my hands.
"Look yar," he said, suddenly, "thar ain't but one place twixt yer
and Indian Spring whar ye can stop, and that is Sylvester's."
I assented, a little sullenly.
"Well," said the stranger, quietly, and with a slight suggestion of
conferring a favor on me, "ef yer pointed for Sylvester's--why--I
DON'T MIND STOPPING THAR WITH YE. It's a little off the road--I'll
lose some time--but taking it by and large, I don't much mind."
I stated, as rapidly and as strongly as I could, that my
acquaintance with Mr. Sylvester did not justify the introduction of
a stranger to his hospitality; that he was unlike most of the
people here,--in short, that he was a queer man, etc., etc.
To my surprise my companion answered quietly: "Oh, that's all
right. I've heerd of him. Ef you don't feel like checking me
through, or if you'd rather put 'C. O. D.' on my back, why it's all
the same to me. I'll play it alone. Only you just count me in.
Say 'Sylvester' all the time. That's me!"
What could I oppose to this man's quiet assurance? I felt myself
growing red with anger and nervous with embarrassment.
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