Rudder Grange

  CHAPTER XVIII. OUR TAVERN.

  The next day was clear again, and we rambled in the woods until the sunwas nearly down, and so were late about supper. We were just takingour seats at the table when we heard a footstep on the front porch.Instantly the same thought came into each of our minds.

  "I do believe," said Euphemia, "that's somebody who has mistaken thisfor a tavern. I wonder whether it's a soldier or a farmer or a sailor;but you had better go and see."

  I went to see, prompted to move quickly by the new-comer pounding hiscane on the bare floor of the hall. I found him standing just insideof the front door. He was a small man, with long hair and beard, anddressed in a suit of clothes of a remarkable color,--something of thehue of faded snuff. He had a big stick, and carried a large flat valisein one hand.

  He bowed to me very politely.

  "Can I stop here to-night?" he asked, taking off his hat, as my wife puther head out of the kitchen-door.

  "Why,--no, sir," I said. "This is not a tavern."

  "Not a tavern!" he exclaimed. "I don't understand that. You have a signout."

  "That is true," I said; "but that is only for fun, so to speak. We arehere temporarily, and we put up that sign just to please ourselves."

  "That is pretty poor fun for me," said the man. "I am very tired, andmore hungry than tired. Couldn't you let me have a little supper at anyrate?"

  Euphemia glanced at me. I nodded.

  "You are welcome to some supper," she said, "Come in! We eat in thekitchen because it is more convenient, and because it is so much morecheerful than the dining-room. There is a pump out there, and here is atowel, if you would like to wash your hands."

  As the man went out the back door I complimented my wife. She was reallyan admirable hostess.

  The individual in faded snuff-color was certainly hungry, and he seemedto enjoy his supper. During the meal he gave us some account of himself.He was an artist and had traveled, mostly on foot it would appear,over a great part of the country. He had in his valise some very prettylittle colored sketches of scenes in Mexico and California, which heshowed us after supper. Why he carried these pictures--which were doneon stiff paper--about with him I do not know. He said he did not careto sell them, as he might use them for studies for larger pictures someday. His valise, which he opened wide on the table, seemed to be filledwith papers, drawings, and matters of that kind. I suppose he preferredto wear his clothes, instead of carrying them about in his valise.

  After sitting for about half an hour after supper, he rose, withan uncertain sort of smile, and said he supposed he must be movingon,--asking, at the same time, how far it was to the tavern over theridge.

  "Just wait one moment, if you please," said Euphemia. And she beckonedme out of the room.

  "Don't you think," said she, "that we could keep him all night? There'sno moon, and it would be a fearful dark walk, I know, to the other sideof the mountain. There is a room upstairs that I can fix for him in tenminutes, and I know he's honest."

  "How do you know it?" I asked.

  "Well, because he wears such curious-colored clothes. No criminal wouldever wear such clothes. He could never pass unnoticed anywhere; andbeing probably the only person in the world who dressed that way, hecould always be detected."

  "You are doubtless correct," I replied. "Let us keep him."

  When we told the good man that he could stay all night, he was extremelyobliged to us, and went to bed quite early. After we had fastened thehouse and had gone to our room, my wife said to me,

  "Where is your pistol?"

  I produced it.

  "Well," said she, "I think you ought to have it where you can get atit."

  "Why so?" I asked. "You generally want me to keep it out of sight andreach."

  "Yes; but when there is a strange man in the house we ought to takeextra precautions."

  "But this man you say is honest," I replied. "If he committed a crime hecould not escape,--his appearance is so peculiar."

  "But that wouldn't do us any good, if we were both murdered," saidEuphemia, pulling a chair up to my side of the bed, and laying thepistol carefully thereon, with the muzzle toward the bed.

  We were not murdered, and we had a very pleasant breakfast with theartist, who told us more anecdotes of his life in Mexico and otherplaces. When, after breakfast, he shut up his valise, preparatory tostarting away, we felt really sorry. When he was ready to go, he askedfor his bill.

  "Oh! There is no bill," I exclaimed. "We have no idea of charging youanything. We don't really keep a hotel, as I told you."

  "If I had known that," said he, looking very grave, "I would not havestayed. There is no reason why you should give me food and lodgings, andI would not, and did not, ask it. I am able to pay for such things, andI wish to do so."

  We argued with him for some time, speaking of the habits of countrypeople and so on, but he would not be convinced. He had asked foraccommodation expecting to pay for it, and would not be content until hehad done so.

  "Well," said Euphemia, "we are not keeping this house for profit, andyou can't force us to make anything out of you. If you will be satisfiedto pay us just what it cost us to entertain you, I suppose we shall haveto let you do that. Take a seat for a minute, and I will make out yourbill."

  So the artist and I sat down and talked of various matters, whilemy wife got out her traveling stationery-box, and sat down to thedining-table to make out the bill. After a long, long time, as itappeared to me, I said:

  "My dear, if the amount of that bill is at all proportioned to thelength of time it takes to make it out, I think our friend here willwish he had never said anything about it."

  "It's nearly done," said she, without raising her head, and, in aboutten or fifteen minutes more, she rose and presented the bill to ourguest. As I noticed that he seemed somewhat surprised at it, I asked himto let me look over it with him. The bill, of which I have a copy, readas follows:

  July 12th, 187- ARTIST,

  To the S. and S. Hotel and F. and M. House.

  To 1/3 one supper, July 11th, which supper consisted of:

  1/14 lb. coffee, at 35 cts. 2 cts.

  " " sugar, " 14 " 1 "

  1/6 qt. milk, " 6 " 1 "

  1/2 loaf bread " 6 " 3 "

  1/8 lb. butter " 25 " 3 1/8 "

  1/2 " bacon " 25 " 12 1/2 "

  1/16 pk. potatoes at 60 cts. per bush 15/16 "

  1/2 pt. hominy at 6 cts 3 " -------- 27 1/16

  1/3 of total 09 1/48 cts.

  To 1/3 one breakfast, July 12th (same as above, with exception of eggs instead of bacon, and with hominy omitted), -------- 24 1/6

  1/3 total 08 1/48 "

  To rent of one room and furniture, for one night, in furnished house of fifteen rooms at $6.00 per week for whole house 05 3/8 " ------------ Amount due 22 17/24 cts.

  The worthy artist burst out laughing when he read this bill, and so didI.

  "You needn't laugh," said Euphemia, reddening a little. "That is exactlywhat your entertainment cost, and we do not intend to take a cent more.We get things here in such small quantities that I can tell quite easilywhat a meal costs us, and I have calculated that bill very carefully."

  "So I should think, madam," said the artist, "but it is not quite right.You have charged nothing for your trouble and services."

  "No," said my wife, "for I took no additional trouble to get your meals.What I did, I should have done if you had not come. To be sure Idid spend a few minutes preparing your room. I will charge you seventwenty-fourths of a cent for that, thus mak
ing your bill twenty-threecents--even money."

  "I cannot gainsay reasoning like yours, madam," he said, and he tooka quarter from a very fat old pocket-book, and handed it to her. Shegravely gave him two cents change, and then taking the bill, receiptedit, and handed it back to him.

  We were sorry to part with our guest, for he was evidently a goodfellow. I walked with him a little way up the road, and got him to letme copy his bill in my memorandum-book. The original, he said, he wouldalways keep.

  A day or two after the artist's departure, we were standing on the frontpiazza. We had had a late breakfast--consequent upon a long tramp theday before--and had come out to see what sort of a day it was likelyto be. We had hardly made up our minds on the subject when the morningstage came up at full speed and stopped at our gate.

  "Hello!" cried the driver. He was not our driver. He was a tall man inhigh boots, and had a great reputation as a manager of horses--so DannyCarson told me afterward. There were two drivers on the line, and eachof them made one trip a day, going up one day in the afternoon, and downthe next day in the morning.

  I went out to see what this driver wanted.

  "Can't you give my passengers breakfast?" he asked.

  "Why, no!" I exclaimed, looking at the stage loaded inside and out."This isn't a tavern. We couldn't get breakfast for a stage-load ofpeople."

  "What have you got a sign up fur, then?" roared the driver, getting redin the face.

  "That's so," cried two or three men from the top of the stage. "If itaint a tavern, what's that sign doin' there?"

  I saw I must do something. I stepped up close to the stage and looked inand up.

  "Are there any sailors in this stage?" I said. There was no response."Any soldiers? Any farmers or mechanics?"

  At the latter question I trembled, but fortunately no one answered.

  "Then," said I, "you have no right to ask to be accommodated; for, asyou may see from the sign, our house is only for soldiers, sailors,farmers, and mechanics."

  "And besides," cried Euphemia from the piazza, "we haven't anything togive you for breakfast."

  The people in and on the stage grumbled a good deal at this, and lookedas if they were both disappointed and hungry, while the driver rippedout an oath, which, had he thrown it across a creek, would soon havemade a good-sized millpond.

  He gathered up his reins and turned a sinister look on me.

  "I'll be even with you, yit," he cried as he dashed off.

  In the afternoon Mrs. Carson came up and told us that the stage hadstopped there, and that she had managed to give the passengers somecoffee, bread and butter and ham and eggs, though they had had towait their turns for cups and plates. It appeared that the driver hadquarreled with the Lowry people that morning because the breakfast wasbehindhand and he was kept waiting. So he told his passengers that therewas another tavern, a few miles down the road, and that he would takethem there to breakfast.

  "He's an awful ugly man, that he is," said Mrs. Carson, "an' he'd better'a' stayed at Lowry's, fur he had to wait a good sight longer, afterall, as it turned out. But he's dreadful mad at you, an' says he'llbring ye farmers, an' soldiers, and sailors, an' mechanics, ifthat's what ye want. I 'spect he'll do his best to git a load of themparticular people an' drop 'em at yer door. I'd take down that sign, efI was you. Not that me an' Danny minds, fur we're glad to git a stage tofeed, an' ef you've any single man that wants lodgin' we've fixed up aroom and kin keep him overnight."

  Notwithstanding this warning, Euphemia and I decided not to take in oursign. We were not to be frightened by a stage-driver. The next day ourown driver passed us on the road as he was going down.

  "So ye're pertickler about the people ye take in, are ye?" said he,smiling. "That's all right, but ye made Bill awful mad."

  It was quite late on a Monday afternoon that Bill stopped at our houseagain. He did not call out this time. He simply drew up, and a man witha big black valise clambered down from the top of the stage. Then Billshouted to me as I walked down to the gate, looking rather angry Isuppose:

  "I was agoin' to git ye a whole stage-load, to stay all night, but thatone'll do ye, I reckon. Ha, ha!" And off he went, probably fearing thatI would throw his passenger up on the top of the stage again.

  The new-comer entered the gate. He was a dark man, with black hair andblack whiskers and mustache, and black eyes. He wore clothes that hadbeen black, but which were now toned down by a good deal of dust, and,as I have said, he carried a black valise.

  "Why did you stop here?" said I, rather inhospitably. "Don't you knowthat we do not accommodate--"

  "Yes, I know," he said, walking up on the piazza and setting down hisvalise, "that you only take soldiers, sailors, farmers, and mechanics atthis house. I have been told all about it, and if I had not thoroughlyunderstood the matter I should not have thought of such a thing asstopping here. If you will sit down for a few moments I will explain."Saying this, he took a seat on a bench by the door, but Euphemia and Icontinued to stand.

  "I am," he continued, "a soldier, a sailor, a farmer, and a mechanic.Do not doubt my word; I will prove it to you in two minutes. When butseventeen years of age, circumstances compelled me to take charge of afarm in New Hampshire, and I kept up that farm until I was twenty-five.During this time I built several barns, wagon-houses, and edifices ofthe sort on my place, and, becoming expert in this branch of mechanicalart, I was much sought after by the neighboring farmers, who employedme to do similar work for them. In time I found this new business soprofitable that I gave up farming altogether. But certain unfortunatespeculations threw me on my back, and finally, having gone from bad toworse, I found myself in Boston, where, in sheer desperation, I wenton board a coasting vessel as landsman. I remained on this vessel fornearly a year, but it did not suit me. I was often sick, and did notlike the work. I left the vessel at one of the Southern ports, andit was not long after she sailed that, finding myself utterly withoutmeans, I enlisted as a soldier. I remained in the army for some years,and was finally honorably discharged. So you see that what I said wastrue. I belong to each and all of these businesses and professions. Andnow that I have satisfied you on this point, let me show you a book forwhich I have the agency in this country." He stooped down, opened hisvalise, and took out a good-sized volume. "This book," said he, "is the'Flora and Fauna of Carthage County;' it is written by one of the firstscientific men of the country, and gives you a description, withan authentic wood-cut, of each of the plants and animals of thecounty--indigenous or naturalized. Owing to peculiar advantages enjoyedby our firm, we are enabled to put this book at the very low price ofthree dollars and seventy-five cents. It is sold by subscription only,and should be on the center-table in every parlor in this county. If youwill glance over this book, sir, you will find it as interesting as anovel, and as useful as an encyclopaedia--"

  "I don't want the book," I said, "and I don't care to look at it."

  "But if you were to look at it you would want it, I'm sure."

  "That's a good reason for not looking at it, then," I answered. "If youcame to get us to subscribe for that book we need not take up any moreof your time, for we shall not subscribe."

  "Oh, I did not come for that alone," he said. "I shall stay hereto-night and start out in the morning to work up the neighborhood. Ifyou would like this book--and I'm sure you have only to look at it to dothat--you can deduct the amount of my bill from the subscription price,and--"

  "What did you say you charged for this book?" asked Euphemia, steppingforward and picking up the volume.

  "Three seventy-five is the subscription price, ma'am, but that book isnot for sale. That is merely a sample. If you put your name down onmy list you will be served with your book in two weeks. As I told yourhusband, it will come very cheap to you, because you can deduct what youcharge me for supper, lodging, and breakfast."

  "Indeed!" said my wife, and then she remarked that she must go in thehouse and get supper.

  "When will supper be ready?" the
man asked, as she passed him.

  At first she did not answer him, but then she called back:

  "In about half an hour."

  "Good," said the man; "but I wish it was ready now. And now, sir, if youwould just glance over this book, while we are waiting for supper--"

  I cut him very short and went out into the road. I walked up and down infront of the house, in a bad humor. I could not bear to think of my wifegetting supper for this fellow, who was striding about on the piazza,as if he was very hungry and very impatient. Just as I returned to thehouse, the bell rang from within.

  "Joyful sound!" said the man, and in he marched. I followed close behindhim. On one end of the table, in the kitchen, supper was set for oneperson, and, as the man entered, Euphemia motioned him to the table. Thesupper looked like a remarkably good one. A cup of coffee smoked by theside of the plate; there was ham and eggs and a small omelette; therewere fried potatoes, some fresh radishes, a plate of hot biscuit, andsome preserves. The man's eyes sparkled.

  "I am sorry," said he, "that I am to eat alone, for I hoped to have yourgood company; but, if this plan suits you, it suits me," and he drew upa chair.

  "Stop!" said Euphemia, advancing between him and the table. "You are notto eat that. This is a sample supper. If you order a supper like it, onewill be served to you in two weeks."

  At this I burst into a roar of laughter; my wife stood pale anddetermined, and the man drew back, looking first at one of us, and thenat the other.

  "Am I to understand--?" he said.

  "Yes," I interrupted, "you are. There is nothing more to be said on thissubject. You may go now. You came here to annoy us, knowing that we didnot entertain travelers, and now you see what you have made by it," andI opened the door.

  The man evidently thought that a reply was not necessary, and he walkedout without a word. Taking up his valise, which he had put in the hall,he asked if there was any public-house near by.

  "No," I said; "but there is a farm-house a short distance down the road,where they will be glad to have you." And down the road he went to Mrs.Carson's. I am sorry to say that he sold her a "Flora and Fauna" beforehe went to bed that night.

  We were much amused at the termination of this affair, and I became, ifpossible, a still greater admirer of Euphemia's talents for management.But we both agreed that it would not do to keep up the sign any longer.We could not tell when the irate driver might not pounce down upon uswith a customer.

  "But I hate to take it down," said Euphemia; "it looks so much like asurrender."

  "Do not trouble yourself," said I. "I have an idea."

  The next morning I went down to Danny Carson's little shop,--he wasa wheelwright as well as a farmer,--and I got from him two pots ofpaint--one black and one white--and some brushes. I took down our sign,and painted out the old lettering, and, instead of it, I painted, inbold and somewhat regular characters, new names for our tavern.

  On one side of the sign I painted:

  "SOAP-MAKER'S AND BOOK-BINDER'S HOTEL."

  And on the other side:

  "UPHOLSTERERS' AND DENTISTS' HOUSE."

  "Now then," I said, "I don't believe any of those people will betraveling along the road while we are here, or, at any rate, they won'twant to stop."

  We admired this sign very much, and sat on the piazza, that afternoon,to see how it would strike Bill, as he passed by. It seemed to strikehim pretty hard, for he gazed with all his eyes at one side of it, as heapproached, and then, as he passed it, he actually pulled up to read theother side.

  "All right!" he called out, as he drove off. "All right! All right!"

  Euphemia didn't like the way he said "all right." It seemed to her, shesaid, as if he intended to do something which would be all right forhim, but not at all so for us. I saw she was nervous about it, for thatevening she began to ask me questions about the traveling propensitiesof soap-makers, upholsterers, and dentists.

  "Do not think anything more about that, my dear," I said. "I will takethe sign down in the morning. We are here to enjoy ourselves, and not tobe worried."

  "And yet," said she, "it would worry me to think that that driverfrightened us into taking down the sign. I tell you what I wish youwould do. Paint out those names, and let me make a sign. Then I promiseyou I will not be worried."

  The next day, therefore, I took down the sign and painted out myinscriptions. It was a good deal of trouble, for my letters werefresh, but it was a rainy day, and I had plenty of time, and succeededtolerably well. Then I gave Euphemia the black-paint pot and the freedomof the sign.

  I went down to the creek to try a little fishing in wet weather, andwhen I returned the new sign was done. On one side it read:

  FLIES' AND WASPS' HOTEL.

  On the other:

  HUNDRED-LEGGERS' AND RED-ANTS' HOUSE.

  "You see," said euphemia, "if any individuals mentioned thereon applyfor accommodation, we can say we are full."

  This sign hung triumphantly for several days, when one morning, just aswe had finished breakfast, we were surprised to hear the stage stop atthe door, and before we could go out to see who had arrived, into theroom came our own stage-driver, as we used to call him. He had actuallyleft his team to come and see us.

  "I just thought I'd stop an' tell ye," said he, "that ef ye don't lookout, Bill'll get ye inter trouble. He's bound to git the best o' ye, an'I heared this mornin', at Lowry's, that he's agoin' to bring the countyclerk up here to-morrow, to see about yer license fur keepin' a hotel.He says ye keep changin' yer signs, but that don't differ to him, forhe kin prove ye've kept travelers overnight, an' ef ye haven't got nolicense he'll make the county clerk come down on ye heavy, I'm sure o'that, fur I know Bill. An' so, I thought I'd stop an' tell ye."

  I thanked him, and admitted that this was a rather serious view of thecase. Euphemia pondered a moment. Then said she:

  "I don't see why we should stay here any longer. It's going to rainagain, and our vacation is up to-morrow, anyway. Could you wait a littlewhile, while we pack up?" she said to the driver.

  "Oh yes!" he replied. "I kin wait, as well as not. I've only got onepassenger, an' he's on top, a-holdin' the horses. He aint in any hurry,I know, an' I'm ahead o' time."

  In less than twenty minutes we had packed our trunk, locked up thehouse, and were in the stage, and, as we drove away, we cast a lastadmiring look at Euphemia's sign, slowly swinging in the wind. I wouldmuch like to know if it is swinging there yet. I feel certain there hasbeen no lack of custom.

  We stopped at Mrs. Carson's, paid her what we owed her, and engaged herto go up to the tavern and put things in order. She was very sorry wewere going, but hoped we would come back again some other summer. Wesaid that it was quite possible that we might do so; but that, nexttime, we did not think we would try to have a tavern of our own.