Explore "Dick Sands, Convict" by Francis Hopkinson Smith on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
When I again mounted the sprawling steps of the disheartened-looking tavern, the landlord was sitting by the stove half asleep and alone. He had prepared a little supper, he said, as he led the way, with a benign smile, into the dining-room, where a lonely bracket lamp, backed by a tin reflector, revealed a table holding a pitcher of milk, a saucer of preserves, and some pieces of leather beef about the size used in repairing shoes.
"Come, and sit down by me," I said. "I want to talk to you about this young fellow Sands. Tell me everything you know."