Maybe it's a mining country.

If it's a mining country," he continued, puckering his heavy eyebrows, "if it's a mining country, an' the mines are far enough off the roads, maybe I'd better get to the mines an' lay quiet for a month before I try to get any farther south." He washed the cinders and dust of a week's railroading from his face and hair, put on a fresh pair of boots, and went down to supper.

The dining-room was of the invariable type of the smaller interior towns of California.

There was but one table, covered with oilcloth; rows of benches answered for chairs; a railroad map, a chromo with a gilt frame protected by mosquito netting, hung on the walls, together with a yellowed photograph of the proprietor in Masonic regalia.

Two waitresses whom the guests--all men--called by their first names, came and went with large trays.
Through the windows outside McTeague observed a great number of saddle horses tied to trees and fences.