That long night's ride was interesting though tiresome. Ralph tried to
count the telegraph poles without understanding much about their uses.
The low, level country, the tall trunks of the pines, the ever present
negroes, the sparks from the engine, and the occasional interruptions
from the conductor, kept him from sleep until long after midnight.
Finally, however, he coiled himself up on the seat and knew nothing
more until some one shook him by the shoulder.
"Is yo' gwine ter stay in yere all day?" asked a voice.
Ralph sat up and rubbed his eyes. The sun was shining and the car
empty, with the exception of himself and a negro brakeman, who had
awakened him from an unusually sound slumber.
"Where are we?" he asked.
"We'se in Savanny. Been yere nigh 'bout an hour. I seed yo' was
tired, an' I 'lowed I'd let yer sleep. But I'se got ter sweep out now."
When Ralph emerged from the depot he found himself on a sandy unpaved
street, with many half shabby frame houses about and a number of tall
pines in the distance.
He followed a line of trucks and drays towards the business part of the
city, and presently dropped into a cheap eating house for breakfast.
After that he began to inquire for the Marshall House, which he found
to be a large, red brick hostelry, with a broad second story veranda in
front. The sidewalk beneath was sprinkled with chairs partially
occupied by men reading their morning papers or smoking.
A few glanced curiously at the roughly dressed boy, who made his way
into a large hall and office combined, where trunks and grips were
stacked up by the score, and trim porters and waiters were gliding to
and fro.
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