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Updated: May 8, 2025
He had only paused at Maxy Schaffer's Railroad Hotel to partake of what he called a Kentucky breakfast a drink of whisky and a chew of tobacco a simple dietary protection against the evils of an empty stomach, to which he particularly drew Custer's attention. His father's occupation was entirely satisfactory to Custer.
At that time he was also an itinerant bill-poster and had his lodgings at Maxy Schaffer's Railroad Hotel hard by the B. & O. tracks. Mr. Shrimplin was five feet three, and narrow chested. A drooping flaxen mustache shaded a sloping chin and a loose under lip, while a pair of pale eyes looked sadly out upon the world from the shadow of a hooked nose. Mr. Joe Montgomery, Mrs.
He jogged past Maxy Schaffer's Railroad Hotel at the corner of Front Street, which flung the wicked radiance of its bar-room windows along the shining railroad track where it crossed the creek on the new iron bridge; and keeping on down Water Street with its smoky tenements, entered an outlying district where the lamps were far apart and where red and blue and green switch lights blinked at him out of the storm.
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