A dog barked sharply at him, as he echoed by, but inaudibly to
Bressant's ears. Presently a raised sidewalk divided off from the road,
affording a smoother course; the outlying houses of the village slipped
past one after another; a white picket-fence twittered indistinguishably
by. The runner was nearing the end of his journey, and now leaned a
little farther forward, and his feet fell in a quicker rhythm than ever.
At the beginning of the village street stood the corner grocery; a
wooden awning in front, some men loafing at the door, who looked up as
the sound of Bressant's passing struck their ears; within, an indistinct
vision of barrels of produce, hams pendent from the dusky ceiling, some
brooms in a corner, and a big cheese upon the counter. Next succeeded
the series of adjoining shop-fronts, with their various windows, signs,
and styles; all wooden and clap-boarded, however, except the fire-engine
house, of red brick, with its wide central door and boarded slope to the
street. Bressant's steps echoed closely back from between the buildings;
once he clattered sharply over a stretch of brick sidewalk; once dodged
aside to avoid overrunning a dark-figured man. The village was left
behind; yonder stood the boarding-house, dimly white and irregular of
outline; he remembered it from the glimpse he had had in passing on his
way from the depot.
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