Should I win? I had a broken cigar in my pocket. I
lit the preserved end at the top of the feeble carriage lamp. I had
the compartment alone. Sleep! Not I. Who could sleep when the car
wheels and the rattling windows kept saying, "The innkeeper knows! The
innkeeper knows!" Every stop was a heartache. Ah, those eight hours
were eight separate centuries to me. I looked careworn and haggard
enough the next morning when I stepped on the station platform. I
wanted nothing to eat; not even a cup of coffee to drink.
To find conveyance to the inn was not an easy task. No one wanted to
take the drive. Finally I secured a horse. There was no haggling over
the price. And soon I was loping through the snowdrifts in the
direction of the old inn. The snow whirled and eddied over the stubble
fields; the winds sang past my ears; the trees creaked and the river
flowed on, black and sluggish. It was a dreary scene. It was bitter
cold, but I had no mind for that. On, on I went. Two miles were left
in the rear. The horse was beginning to breathe hard. Sometimes the
snow was up to his knees.
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