omething, and,
as the gentleman (who was Mr. Clayton, the proprietor of the hotel)
stopped near the post, Baker walked straight up to it, without having
looked to the left or the right. Upon reaching it he dropped the
invisible something that he carried in his right hand, laid his hat on
the ground, slipped the rawhide suspenders from his shoulders,
unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it over his head, and laid it on the grass
alongside his hat. He then humbly embraced the post and crossed his
hands over a ring to which a chain was attached. He laid his cheek
against his bare right arm and waited patiently, without having uttered
a protest or made an appeal. The old boots looked up wistfully into his
sorrowing face.

His naked back glistened white. It was a map on which were traced a
record of the bloody cruelties of many years; it was a fine piece of
mosaic--human flesh inlaid with the venom of the lash. There were
scars, and seams, and ridges, and cuts that crossed and recrossed each
other in all possible directions. Thus stood Baker for some time, until
Mr. Clayton kindly called to him:

"Put on your shirt."

He proceeded to obey silently, but was confused and embarrassed at this
unexpected turn of events. He hesitated at first, however, for he
evidently did not understand how he could put on his shirt until his
hands had been released.

"Your hands are not chained," explained Mr. Clayton.

The revelation was so unexpected that it almost startled the man from
Georgia. He pulled out one hand slowly, that a sudden jerk might not
lacerate his wrist. Then he pulled out the other, resumed his shirt and
hat, picked up the imaginary weight, and shuffled along slowly after
his leader.

"What is your name?" asked the gentleman.

"Hunder'd'n One."

They were soon traversing the corridor in the servants' quarter of the
hotel, when Baker halted and ventured to say:

"I reckin you'r in the wrong curryder." He was examining the ceiling,
the floor, and the numbers on the doors.

"No, this is right," said the gentleman.

Again Baker hobbled along, never releasing his hold on the invisible
weight. They halted at No. 13. Said Baker, with a shade of pity in his
voice,--

"'Taint right. Wrong curryder. Cell hunder'd'n one's mine."

"Yes, yes; but we'll put you in this one for the present," replied the
gentleman, as he opened the door and ushered Baker within. The room was
comfortably furnished, and this perplexed Baker more a