In the remote past there had been some spasmodic
attempt to cultivate grass and raise some shade-trees along the sidewalks,
but this had long since been given up as abortive. An air of decay hung
over the street, the unmistakable suggestion of better days. This was writ
large over the house in front of which Yesler stopped. The gate hung on one
hinge, boards were missing from the walk, and a dilapidated shutter, which
had once been green, swayed in the breeze.
A woman of about thirty, dark and pretty but poorly dressed, came to the
door in answer to his ring. Two little children, a boy and a girl, with
their mother's shy long-lashed Southern eyes of brown, clung to her skirts
and gazed at the stranger.
"This is where Mr. Pelton lives, is it not?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Is he at home?"
"Yes, sir."
"May I see him?"
"He's sick."
"I'm sorry to hear it. Too sick to be seen? If not, I should like very much
to see him. I have business with him."
The young woman looked at him a little defiantly and a little suspiciously.
"Are you a reporter?"
Sam smiled.
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