Clinton by Walter Aimwell — Read

Jerry had planned his flight with considerable care and skill, for a boy of his age; and before the time came for him to take the first step, he had laid out the course he intended to pursue. Dressed in his best suit, with his bundle of clean clothes under his arm, and with the ill-gotten thirty dollars stowed away in the lower corner of his vest pocket, he started on his journey into the great unknown world. He walked for many a weary mile, over a road covered with snow that had recently fallen; but the sun shone pleasantly, and the weather was not so cold but that he sweat very freely from his exercise. It was not until after sunset that he reached the tavern where he proposed to spend the night. This tavern was a large wooden building, somewhat dingy with age, and bore upon its front a faded, weather-beaten sign, on which was inscribed the name of its proprietor. Some time before Jerry reached the building, he could see the bright, cheerful light of the fire shining through the windows, and flickering and flashing over the wide, level field of snow which separated him from its comfortable shelter. Quickening his steps, he was soon at the door, and without stopping to knock, he entered the room from which he had seen the light.

It was a large room, with sanded floor, and the walls were covered with dingy maps, pictures, stage and railroad bills, advertisements of public houses in other places, and various other things. There was a large, open fire-place on one side, and a heap of glowing coals and blazing logs gave the room a very comfortable and attractive aspect. Several men were seated around the fire, in chairs, which supported themselves on their back legs, at an angle of forty-five degrees. Two or three of the company were smoking cigars, the fumes of which filled the room almost to suffocation. As Jerry entered, the men all seemed to look at him pretty sharply, and as he laid down his bundle, and drew a chair up to the fire, one of them said,