Other customers there are none, except that one regular
boarder whom I have mentioned.

If misery makes a man acquainted with strange bed-fellows, it is equally
certain that the profession of surveyor and civil engineer often takes
one into undreamed-of localities. I had never heard of Greenton until my
duties sent me there, and kept me there two weeks in the dreariest
season of the year. I do not think I would, of my own volition, have
selected Greenton for a fortnight's sojourn at any time; but now the
business is over, I shall never regret the circumstances that made me
the guest of Tobias Sewell, and brought me into intimate relations with
Miss Mehetabel's Son.

It was a black October night in the year of grace 1872, that discovered
me standing in front of the old tavern at the Corners. Though the ten
miles' ride from K---- had been depressing, especially the last five
miles, on account of the cold autumnal rain that had set in, I felt a
pang of regret on hearing the rickety open wagon turn round in the road
and roll off in the darkness. There were no lights visible anywhere, and
only for the big, shapeless mass of something in front of me, which the
driver had said was the hotel, I should have fancied that I had been set
down by the roadside. I was wet to the skin and in no amiable humor; and
not being able to find bell-pull or knocker, or even a door, I belabored
the side of the house with my heavy walking-stick. In a minute or two I
saw a light flickering somewhere aloft, then I heard the sound of a
window opening, followed by an exclamation of disgust as a blast of wind
extinguished the candle which had given me an instantaneous picture _en
silhouette_ of a man leaning out of a casement.

"I say, what do you want, down there?" inquired an unprepossessing
voice.

"I want to come in; I want a supper, and a bed, and numberless things."

"This isn't no time of night to go rousing honest folks out of their
sleep. Who are you, anyway?"

The question, superficially considered, was a very simple one, and I, of
all people in the world, ought to have been able to answer it off-hand;
but it staggered me. Strangely enough, there came drifting across my
memory the lettering on the back of a metaphysical work which I had seen
years before on a shelf in the Astor Library. Owing to an
unpremeditatedly funny collocation of title and author, the lettering
read as follows:--"Who am I? Jones." Evidently it had puzzled Jones t