OUR TAVERN.
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 Ican 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, Isuppose 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:
