I
The stage stopped at a disheartened-looking tavern with a sagging
porch and sprawling wooden steps. A fat man with a good-natured face,
tagged with a gray chin whisker, bareheaded, and without a coat--there
was snow on the ground, too--and who said he was the landlord, lifted
my yellow bag from one of the long chintz-covered stage cushions, and
preceded me through a sanded hall into a low-ceiled room warmed by a
red-hot stove, and lighted by windows filled with geraniums in full
bloom. The effect of this color was so surprising, and the contrast to
the desolate surroundings outside so grateful, that, without stopping
to register my name, I drew up a chair and joined the circle of baking
loungers. My oversight was promptly noted by the clerk--a sallow-faced
young man with an uncomfortably high collar, red necktie, and stooping
shoulders--and as promptly corrected by his dipping a pen in a wooden
inkstand and holding the book on his knee until I could add my own
superscription to those on its bespattered page. He had been
considerate enough not to ask me to rise.
The landlord studied the signature, his spectacles on his nose, and
remarked in a kindly tone:--
"Oh, you're the man what's going to lecture to the college."
"Yes; how far is it from here?"
"'Bout two miles out, Bingville way. You'll want a team, won't you? If
I'd knowed it was you when yer got out I'd told the driver to come
back for you. But it's all right--he's got to stop here again in half
an hour--soon 's he leaves the mail."
I thanked him and asked him to see that the stage called for me at
half-past seven, as I was to speak at eight o'clock. He nodded in
assent, dropped into a rocking chair, and guided a spittoon into range
with his foot. Then he backed away a little and began to scrutinize my
face. Something about me evidently puzzled him. A leaning mirror that
hung over a washstand reflected his head and shoulders, and gave me
every expression that flitted across his good-natured countenance.
His summing up was evidently favorable, for his scrutinizing look gave
place to a benign smile which widened into curves around his mouth and
lost itself in faint ripples under his eyes. Hitching his chair
closer, he spread his fat knees, and settled his broad shoulders,
lazily stroking his chin whisker all the while with his puffy fingers.
"Guess you ain't been at the business long," he said kindly. "Last one
we had a year ago looked kinder peaked." The secret of his peculiar
interest was now out. "Must be awful tough on yer throat, havin' to
holler so. I wasn't up to the show, but the fellers said they heard
him 'fore they got to the crossin'. 'Twas spring weather and the
winders was up. He didn't have no baggage--only a paper box and a
strap. I got supper for him when he come back, and he did eat
hearty--did me good to watch him." Then, looking at the clock and
recalling his duties as a host, he leaned over, and shielding his
mouth with his hand, so as not to be overheard by the loungers, said
in a confidential tone, "Supper'll be on in half an hour, if you want
to clean up. I'll see you get what you want. Your room's first on the
right--you can't miss it."
I expressed my appreciation of his timely suggestion, and picking up
the yellow bag myself--hall-boys are scarce in these localities--mounted
the steps to my bedroom.
Within the hour--fully equipped in the regulation costume, swallow-tail,
white tie, and white waistcoat--I was again hugging the stove, for
my bedroom had been as cold as a barn.
My appearance created something of a sensation. A tall man in a
butternut suit, with a sinister face, craned his head as I passed, and
the sallow-faced clerk leaned over the desk in an absorbed way, his
eyes glued to my shirt front. The others looked stolidly at the red
bulb of the stove. No remarks were made--none aloud, the splendor of
my appearance and the immaculate nature of my appointments seeming to
have paralyzed general conversation for the moment. This silence
continued. I confess I did not know how to break it. Tavern stoves are
often trying ordeals to the wayfarer; the silent listeners with the
impassive leather faces and foxlike eyes disconcert him; he knows just
what they will say about him when they go out. The awkward stillness
was finally broken by a girl in blue gingham opening a door and
announcing supper.
It was one of those frying-pan feasts of eggs, bacon, and doughnuts,
with canned corn in birds' bathtubs, plenty of green pickles, and dabs
of home-made preserves in pressed glass saucers. It occupied a few
moments only. When it was over, I resumed my chair by the stove.
The night had evidently grown colder. The landlord had felt it, for he
had put on his coat; so had a man with a dyed mustache and heavy red
face, whom I had left tipped back against the wall, and who was now
raking out the ashes with a poker. So had the butternut man, who had
moved two diameters nearer the centre of comfort. All doubts, however,
were dispelled by the arrival of a thickset man with ruddy cheeks, who
slammed the door behind him and moved quickly toward the stove,
shedding the snow from his high boots as he walked. He nodded to the
landlord and spread his stiff fingers to the red glow. A faint wreath
of white steam arose from his coonskin overcoat, filling the room with
the odor of wet horse blankets and burned leather. The landlord left
the desk, where he had been figuring with the clerk, approached my
chair, and pointing to the new arrival, said:--
"This is the driver I been expectin' over from Hell's Diggings. He'll
take you. This man"--he now pointed to me--"wants to go to the college
at 7.30."
The new arrival shifted his whip to the other hand, looked me all
over, his keen and penetrating eye resting for an instant on my white
shirt and waistcoat, and answered slowly, still looking at me, but
addressing the landlord:--
"He'll have to get somebody else. I got to take Dick Sands over to
Millwood Station; his mother's took bad again."
"What, Dick Sands?" came a voice from the other side of the stove. It
was the man in the butternut suit.
"Why, Dick Sands," replied the driver in a positive tone.
"Not _Dick Sands_?" The voice expressed not only surprise but
incredulity.
"Yes, DICK SANDS," shouted the driver in a tone that carried with it
his instant intention of breaking anybody's head who doubted the
statement.
"Gosh! that so? When did he git out?" cried the butternut man.
"Oh, a month back. He's been up in Hell's Diggin's ever since." Then
finding that no one impugned his veracity, he added in a milder tone:
"His old mother's awful sick up to her sister's back of Millwood. He
got word a while ago."
"Well, this gentleman's got to speak at the college, and our team
won't be back in time." The landlord pronounced the word "gentleman"
with emphasis. The white waistcoat had evidently gotten in its fine
work.
"Let Dick walk," broke in the clerk. "He's used to it, and used to
runnin', too"--this last with a dry laugh in spite of an angry glance
from his employer.
"Well, Dick won't walk," snapped the driver, his voice rising. "He'll
ride like a white man, he will, and that's all there is to it. His
leg's bad ag'in."
These remarks were not aimed at me nor at the room. They were fired
pointblank at the clerk. I kept silent; so did the clerk.
"What time was you goin' to take Dick?" inquired the landlord in a
conciliatory tone.
"'Bout 7.20--time to catch the 8.10."
"Well, now, why can't you take this man along? You can go to the
Diggings for Dick, and then"--pointing again at me--"you can drop him
at the college and keep on to the station. 'Tain't much out of the
way."