The next day was clear again, and we rambled in the woods until the sun
was nearly down, and so were late about supper. We were just taking
our 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 this
for 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 his
cane on the bare floor of the hall. I found him standing just inside
of the front door. He was a small man, with long hair and beard, and
dressed in a suit of clothes of a remarkable color,--something of the
hue of faded snuff. He had a big stick, and carried a large flat valise
in one hand.
He bowed to me very politely.
“Can I stop here to-night?” he asked, taking off his hat, as my wife put
her 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 sign
out.”
“That is true,” I said; “but that is only for fun, so to speak. We are
here 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, and
more hungry than tired. Couldn't you let me have a little supper at any
rate?”
Euphemia glanced at me. I nodded.
“You are welcome to some supper,” she said, “Come in! We eat in the
kitchen because it is more convenient, and because it is so much more
cheerful than the dining-room. There is a pump out there, and here is a
towel, if you would like to wash your hands.”
As the man went out the back door I complimented my wife. She was really
an admirable hostess.
The individual in faded snuff-color was certainly hungry, and he seemed
to 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 pretty
little colored sketches of scenes in Mexico and California, which he
showed us after supper. Why he carried these pictures--which were done
on stiff paper--about with him I do not know. He said he did not care
to sell them, as he might use them for studies for larger pictures some
day. His valise, which he opened wide on the table, seemed to be filled
with papers, drawings, and matters of that kind. I suppose he preferred
to wear his clothes, instead of carrying them about in his valise.
After sitting for about half an hour after supper, he rose, with
an uncertain sort of smile, and said he supposed he must be moving
on,--asking, at the same time, how far it was to the tavern over the
ridge.
“Just wait one moment, if you please,” said Euphemia. And she beckoned
me out of the room.
“Don't you think,” said she, “that we could keep him all night? There's
no moon, and it would be a fearful dark walk, I know, to the other side
of the mountain. There is a room upstairs that I can fix for him in ten
minutes, and I know he's honest.”
“How do you know it?” I asked.
“Well, because he wears such curious-colored clothes. No criminal would
ever wear such clothes. He could never pass unnoticed anywhere; and
being probably the only person in the world who dressed that way, he
could 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 extremely
obliged to us, and went to bed quite early. After we had fastened the
house 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 at
it.”
“Why so?” I asked. “You generally want me to keep it out of sight and
reach.”
“Yes; but when there is a strange man in the house we ought to take
extra precautions.”
“But this man you say is honest,” I replied. “If he committed a crime he
could not escape,--his appearance is so peculiar.”
“But that wouldn't do us any good, if we were both murdered,” said
Euphemia, pulling a chair up to my side of the bed, and laying the
pistol carefully thereon, with the muzzle toward the bed.
We were not murdered, and we had a very pleasant breakfast with the
artist, who told us more anecdotes of his life in Mexico and other
places. When, after breakfast, he shut up his valise, preparatory to
starting away, we felt really sorry. When he was ready to go, he asked
for his bill.
“Oh! There is no bill,” I exclaimed. “We have no idea of charging you
anything. We don't really keep a hotel, as I told you.”
“If I had known that,” said he, looking very grave, “I would not have
stayed. There is no reason why you should give me food and lodgings, and
I would not, and did not, ask it. I am able to pay for such things, and
I wish to do so.”
We argued with him for some time, speaking of the habits of country
people and so on, but he would not be convinced. He had asked for
accommodation expecting to pay for it, and would not be content until he
had done so.
“Well,” said Euphemia, “we are not keeping this house for profit, and
you can't force us to make anything out of you. If you will be satisfied
to pay us just what it cost us to entertain you, I suppose we shall have
to let you do that. Take a seat for a minute, and I will make out your
bill.”
So the artist and I sat down and talked of various matters, while
my wife got out her traveling stationery-box, and sat down to the
dining-table to make out the bill. After a long, long time, as it
appeared to me, I said:
“My dear, if the amount of that bill is at all proportioned to the
length of time it takes to make it out, I think our friend here will
wish he had never said anything about it.”
“It's nearly done,” said she, without raising her head, and, in about
ten or fifteen minutes more, she rose and presented the bill to our
guest. As I noticed that he seemed somewhat surprised at it, I asked him
to let me look over it with him. The bill, of which I have a copy, read
as 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 did
I.
“You needn't laugh,” said Euphemia, reddening a little. “That is exactly
what 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 easily
what 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 I
did spend a few minutes preparing your room. I will charge you seven
twenty-fourths of a cent for that, thus making your bill twenty-three
cents--even money.”
“I cannot gainsay reasoning like yours, madam,” he said, and he took
a quarter from a very fat old pocket-book, and handed it to her. She
gravely gave him two cents change, and then taking the bill, receipted
it, and handed it back to him.
We were sorry to part with our guest, for he was evidently a good
fellow. I walked with him a little way up the road, and got him to let
me copy his bill in my memorandum-book. The original, he said, he would
always keep.
A day or two after the artist's departure, we were standing on the front
piazza. We had had a late breakfast--consequent upon a long tramp the
day before--and had come out to see what sort of a day it was likely
to be. We had hardly made up our minds on the subject when the morning
stage came up at full speed and stopped at our gate.
“Hello!” cried the driver. He was not our driver. He was a tall man in
high boots, and had a great reputation as a manager of horses--so Danny
Carson told me afterward. There were two drivers on the line, and each
of them made one trip a day, going up one day in the afternoon, and down
the 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 of
people.”
“What have you got a sign up fur, then?” roared the driver, getting red
in the face.
“That's so,” cried two or three men from the top of the stage. “If it
aint a tavern, what's that sign doin' there?”
I saw I must do something. I stepped up close to the stage and looked in
and 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, as
you 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 to
give you for breakfast.”
The people in and on the stage grumbled a good deal at this, and looked
as if they were both disappointed and hungry, while the driver ripped
out an oath, which, had he thrown it across a creek, would soon have
made 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 had
stopped there, and that she had managed to give the passengers some
coffee, bread and butter and ham and eggs, though they had had to
wait their turns for cups and plates. It appeared that the driver had
quarreled with the Lowry people that morning because the breakfast was
behindhand and he was kept waiting. So he told his passengers that there
was another tavern, a few miles down the road, and that he would take
them 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, after
all, as it turned out. But he's dreadful mad at you, an' says he'll
bring ye farmers, an' soldiers, and sailors, an' mechanics, if
that's what ye want. I 'spect he'll do his best to git a load of them
particular people an' drop 'em at yer door. I'd take down that sign, ef
I was you. Not that me an' Danny minds, fur we're glad to git a stage to
feed, an' ef you've any single man that wants lodgin' we've fixed up a
room and kin keep him overnight.”
Notwithstanding this warning, Euphemia and I decided not to take in our
sign. We were not to be frightened by a stage-driver. The next day our
own 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 house
again. He did not call out this time. He simply drew up, and a man with
a big black valise clambered down from the top of the stage. Then Bill
shouted to me as I walked down to the gate, looking rather angry I
suppose:
“I was agoin' to git ye a whole stage-load, to stay all night, but that
one'll do ye, I reckon. Ha, ha!” And off he went, probably fearing that
I 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 and
black whiskers and mustache, and black eyes. He wore clothes that had
been 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 know
that we do not accommodate--”
“Yes, I know,” he said, walking up on the piazza and setting down his
valise, “that you only take soldiers, sailors, farmers, and mechanics at
this house. I have been told all about it, and if I had not thoroughly
understood the matter I should not have thought of such a thing as
stopping 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 I
continued 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 but
seventeen years of age, circumstances compelled me to take charge of a
farm 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 of
the sort on my place, and, becoming expert in this branch of mechanical
art, I was much sought after by the neighboring farmers, who employed
me to do similar work for them. In time I found this new business so
profitable that I gave up farming altogether. But certain unfortunate
speculations threw me on my back, and finally, having gone from bad to
worse, I found myself in Boston, where, in sheer desperation, I went
on board a coasting vessel as landsman. I remained on this vessel for
nearly a year, but it did not suit me. I was often sick, and did not
like the work. I left the vessel at one of the Southern ports, and
it was not long after she sailed that, finding myself utterly without
means, 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 was
true. I belong to each and all of these businesses and professions. And
now that I have satisfied you on this point, let me show you a book for
which I have the agency in this country.” He stooped down, opened his
valise, 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 first
scientific men of the country, and gives you a description, with
an authentic wood-cut, of each of the plants and animals of the
county--indigenous or naturalized. Owing to peculiar advantages enjoyed
by our firm, we are enabled to put this book at the very low price of
three 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 you
will glance over this book, sir, you will find it as interesting as a
novel, 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 you
came to get us to subscribe for that book we need not take up any more
of your time, for we shall not subscribe.”
“Oh, I did not come for that alone,” he said. “I shall stay here
to-night and start out in the morning to work up the neighborhood. If
you would like this book--and I'm sure you have only to look at it to do
that--you can deduct the amount of my bill from the subscription price,
and--”
“What did you say you charged for this book?” asked Euphemia, stepping
forward and picking up the volume.
“Three seventy-five is the subscription price, ma'am, but that book is
not for sale. That is merely a sample. If you put your name down on
my list you will be served with your book in two weeks. As I told your
husband, it will come very cheap to you, because you can deduct what you
charge me for supper, lodging, and breakfast.”
“Indeed!” said my wife, and then she remarked that she must go in the
house 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 you
would 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 in
front of the house, in a bad humor. I could not bear to think of my wife
getting 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 the
house, the bell rang from within.
“Joyful sound!” said the man, and in he marched. I followed close behind
him. On one end of the table, in the kitchen, supper was set for one
person, and, as the man entered, Euphemia motioned him to the table. The
supper looked like a remarkably good one. A cup of coffee smoked by the
side of the plate; there was ham and eggs and a small omelette; there
were fried potatoes, some fresh radishes, a plate of hot biscuit, and
some preserves. The man's eyes sparkled.
“I am sorry,” said he, “that I am to eat alone, for I hoped to have your
good company; but, if this plan suits you, it suits me,” and he drew up
a chair.
“Stop!” said Euphemia, advancing between him and the table. “You are not
to eat that. This is a sample supper. If you order a supper like it, one
will be served to you in two weeks.”
At this I burst into a roar of laughter; my wife stood pale and
determined, and the man drew back, looking first at one of us, and then
at the other.
“Am I to understand--?” he said.
“Yes,” I interrupted, “you are. There is nothing more to be said on this
subject. You may go now. You came here to annoy us, knowing that we did
not entertain travelers, and now you see what you have made by it,” and
I opened the door.
The man evidently thought that a reply was not necessary, and he walked
out 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” before
he went to bed that night.
We were much amused at the termination of this affair, and I became, if
possible, 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 us
with a customer.
“But I hate to take it down,” said Euphemia; “it looks so much like a
surrender.”
“Do not trouble yourself,” said I. “I have an idea.”
The next morning I went down to Danny Carson's little shop,--he was
a wheelwright as well as a farmer,--and I got from him two pots of
paint--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, in
bold 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 be
traveling along the road while we are here, or, at any rate, they won't
want 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 strike
him pretty hard, for he gazed with all his eyes at one side of it, as he
approached, and then, as he passed it, he actually pulled up to read the
other 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, she
said, as if he intended to do something which would be all right for
him, but not at all so for us. I saw she was nervous about it, for that
evening she began to ask me questions about the traveling propensities
of soap-makers, upholsterers, and dentists.
“Do not think anything more about that, my dear,” I said. “I will take
the sign down in the morning. We are here to enjoy ourselves, and not to
be worried.”
“And yet,” said she, “it would worry me to think that that driver
frightened us into taking down the sign. I tell you what I wish you
would do. Paint out those names, and let me make a sign. Then I promise
you I will not be worried.”
The next day, therefore, I took down the sign and painted out my
inscriptions. It was a good deal of trouble, for my letters were
fresh, but it was a rainy day, and I had plenty of time, and succeeded
tolerably well. Then I gave Euphemia the black-paint pot and the freedom
of the sign.
I went down to the creek to try a little fishing in wet weather, and
when 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 apply
for accommodation, we can say we are full.”
This sign hung triumphantly for several days, when one morning, just as
we had finished breakfast, we were surprised to hear the stage stop at
the door, and before we could go out to see who had arrived, into the
room came our own stage-driver, as we used to call him. He had actually
left his team to come and see us.
“I just thought I'd stop an' tell ye,” said he, “that ef ye don't look
out, 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 county
clerk 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, for
he kin prove ye've kept travelers overnight, an' ef ye haven't got no
license 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 the
case. Euphemia pondered a moment. Then said she:
“I don't see why we should stay here any longer. It's going to rain
again, and our vacation is up to-morrow, anyway. Could you wait a little
while, while we pack up?” she said to the driver.
“Oh yes!” he replied. “I kin wait, as well as not. I've only got one
passenger, 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 the
house, and were in the stage, and, as we drove away, we cast a last
admiring look at Euphemia's sign, slowly swinging in the wind. I would
much like to know if it is swinging there yet. I feel certain there has
been no lack of custom.
We stopped at Mrs. Carson's, paid her what we owed her, and engaged her
to go up to the tavern and put things in order. She was very sorry we
were going, but hoped we would come back again some other summer. We
said that it was quite possible that we might do so; but that, next
time, we did not think we would try to have a tavern of our own.