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. b.u.t.ter " 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 quant.i.ties 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.

"h.e.l.lo!" 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 pa.s.sengers 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 pa.s.sengers some coffee, bread and b.u.t.ter 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 pa.s.sengers 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 pa.s.sed 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: