 CHAPTER XIII. Euphemia and I exclaimed with one voice against this. We had just reached the most exciting part, and, I added, we had heard nothing yet about that affair of the taxes. "'You see, sir,' said Pomona, it took me so long to write out the chapters about my birth, my parentage, and my early adventures, that I hadn't time to finish up the rest. But I can tell you what happened after that just as well as if I had ridden out. And so she went on, much more glibly than before, with the account of the doings of the lightning-rod man. There was that wretch on top of the house, a fix in his old rods and a hammer in a way for dear life. He'd brought his ladder over the side fence, where the dog, a barken and a plungin at the boy outside, couldn't see him. I stood dumb for a minute, and then I knowed I had him. I rushed into the house, got a piece of well-rope, tied it to the bulldog's collar, and dragged him out and fastened him to the bottom rung of the ladder. Then I walked over to the front fence with Lord Edward's chain, for I knew that if he got at that bulldog there'd be times, for they'd never been allowed to see each other yet. So I says to the boy, I'm going to tie up the dog, so you needn't be afraid of his jumping over the fence, which he couldn't do, or the boy would have been a corpse for twenty minutes, or maybe half an hour. The boy kinder laughed, and said I needn't mind, which I didn't. Then I went to the gate, and I clicked to the horse which was standing there, and off he starts, as good as gold, and trots down the road. The boy, he said something or other pretty bad, in a way he goes after him, but the horse was a trot and real fast, and had a good start. How on earth could you ever think of doing such things? said Euphemia. That horse might have upset the wagon, and broken all the lightning rods. Besides running over I don't know how many people. But you see, ma'am, that wasn't my look-out, said Pomona. I was a defend in the house, and that enemy must expect to have things happened to him. So then I hears an awful row on the roof, and there was the man just coming down the ladder. He'd heard the horse go off, and when he got about half way down and caught side of the bulldog, he was madder never you see a lighten rodder in all your born days. Take that dog off of there, he yelled at me. No, I won't, says I. I never see a girl like you since I was born, he screams at me. I guess it would have been better for you if you had, says I. And then he was so mad he couldn't stand it any longer, and he comes down as low as he could, and when he saw just how long the rope was, which was pretty short, he made a jump and landed clear of the dog. Then he went on dreadful because he couldn't get at his ladder to take it away, and I wouldn't untie the dog, because if I had he'd had torn the tendons off that fellow's legs in no time. I never see a dog in such a boiling passion, and yet never making no sound at all but blood-curdling grunts. And I don't see how the rodder would have got his ladder at all if the dog hadn't made an awful jump at him, and jerked the ladder down. Just missed your deranium bed, and the rodder he ran to the other end of it and began pulling it away, dog and all. Look a here, says I, we can fix him now, and so he cooled down enough to help me, and I unlocked the front door and we pushed the bottom end of the ladder in, dog and all, and then I shut the door as tight as it would go and untied the end of the rope, and the rodder pulled the ladder out while I had the door too to keep the dog from following, which he came pretty near doing anyway. But I locked him in, and then the man began storming again about his wagon, but when he looked out and see the boy coming back with it, for somebody must have stopped the horse, he stopped storming and went to put up his ladder again. No you don't, says I, I'll let the big dog loose next time, and if I put him at the foot of your ladder you'll never come down. But I want to go and take down what I put up, he says, I ain't to going on with this job. No, says I, you ain't, and you can't go up there to wrench off them rods and make rainholes in the roof, neither. He couldn't get no matter than he was then, and for a minute or two he couldn't speak, and then he says, I'll have satisfaction for this, and I says how, and he says you'll see what it is to interfere with an ordered job, and I says there wasn't no order about it, and he says I'll show you better than that, and he goes to his wagon and gets a book. There, says he, read that. What of it, says I, there ain't no body of the name of ball lives here. That kinder took the man aback, and he said he was told it was the only house on the lane, which I said was right, only it was the next lane he ought or gone to. He said no more after that, but just put his ladder in his wagon and went off. But I was not altogether rid of him. He left a trail of his baleful presence behind him. That horrid bulldog wouldn't let me come into the house. No matter what door I tried there he was just foaming mad. I let him stay till nearly night and then went and spoke kind to him, but it was no good. He'd got an awful spite again me. I found something to eat down cellar, and I made a fire outside and roasted some corn and potatoes. That night I slept in the barn. I wasn't afraid to be away from the house, for I knew it was safe enough, with that dog in it and Lord Edward outside. For three days, Sunday and all, I was kept out of this here house. I got along pretty well with the sleeping and the eating, but the drinking was the worst. I couldn't get no coffee or tea, but there was plenty of milk. Why didn't you get some man to come and attend the dog? I asked. It was dreadful to live that way. Well, I didn't know no man that could do it, said Pomona. The dog would have been too much for old John, and besides he was mad about the kerosene. Sunday afternoon Captain Atkinson and Mrs. Atkinson and their little girl in a push wagon come here, and I told them you was gone away, but they says they would stop a minute, and could I give them a drink? And I had nothing to give it to them in, but an old chicken bowl that I had washed out. For even the dipper was in the house, and I told them everything was locked up, which was true enough, though they must have thought you was a queer kind of people, but I wasn't going to say nothing about that dog, for to tell the truth I was ashamed to do it. So as soon as they had gone I went down into the cellar, and it's lucky that I had the key for the outside cellar door, and I got a piece of fat corned beef and the meat ax. I unlocked the kitchen door and went in, with the ax in one hand and the meat in the other. The dog might take his choice. I knowed he must be pretty nigh famished, for there was nothing that he could get at to eat. As soon as I went in he came running to me, but I could see he was shaky on his legs. He looked a sort of wicked at me, and then he grabbed the meat. He was all right then. "'Oh, my,' said Euphemia. I am so glad to hear that. I was afraid you never got in. But we saw the dog. Is he a savage yet?' "'Oh, no,' said Pomona. Nothing like it. Look here, Pomona,' I said. I want to know about those taxes. When do they come into your story?' "'Pretty soon, sir,' she said, and she went on. After that I knowed it wouldn't do to have them two dogs so that they'd have to be tied up if they see each other. Just as like as not, I'd want them both at once, and then they'd go to fighting and leave me to settle with some bloodthirsty lightning-rotter. So I knowed if they had once a fair fight and found out which was master, they'd be good friends afterwards. I thought the best thing to do would be to let them fight it out, when there was nothing else for them to do. So I fixed things up for the combat.' "'Why, Pomona,' cried Euphemia, I didn't think you were capable of such a cruel thing.' "'It looks that way, ma'am, but really it ain't,' replied the girl. It seemed to me as if it would be a mercy to both of them to have the things settled. So I cleared away a place in front of the woodshed and unchained Lord Edward, and then I opened the kitchen door and called the bull. Out he came, with his teeth a-showin' and his bloodshot eyes and his crooked front legs. Like lightning from the mountain blast he made one bounce for the big dog and, oh, what a fight there was. They rolled, they gnashed, they knocked over the wood-horse and sent chips of flyin' all ways at once. I thought Lord Edward would whip in a minute or two, but he didn't, for the bull stuck to him like a burr, and they was havin' it, ground and lofty, when I hear someone run up behind me and turnin' quick. There was the Piscopalian minister. My, my, my, he hollers. What an awful spectacle. Ain't there no way of stoppin' it? No, sir, says I, and I told him how I didn't want to stop it, and the reason why. Then he says, Where's your master? And I told him how he was away. Isn't there any man at all about, says he? No, says I. Then, says he, if there's nobody else to stop it, I must do it myself. And he took off his coat. No, says I, you keep back, sir. If there's anybody to plunge into that arena, the blood be mine, and I put my hand without thinkin' against his black shirt bosom to hold him back. But he didn't notice, bein' so excited. Now, says I, just wait one minute, and you'll see that bull's tail go between his legs. He's weakin' him. And sure enough, Lord Edward got a good grab at him, and was a-shakin' the very life out of him, when I run up and took Lord Edward by the collar. Drop it, says I, and he dropped it, for he know'd he'd whipped, and he was pretty tired, himself. Then the bulldog, he trotted off with his tail hangin' down. Now then, says I, them dogs will be bosom friends forever after this. Ah, me, says he, I'm sorry, indeed, that your employer, for who I've always had a great respect, should allow you to get into such habits. That made me feel real bad, and I told him, mighty quick, that you was the last man in the world to let me do anything like that, and that if you'd have been here, you'd have traded them dogs, if they'd a-chod your arms off. That you was very particular about such things, and that it would be a pity if he was to think you was a dog-fightin' gentleman, when I'd often heard you say, now that you was fixed and settled, the one thing you would like most would be to be made a vestryman. I sat up straight in my chair. Pomona, I exclaimed, you didn't tell him that. That's what I said, sir, for I wanted him to know what you really was, and he says, well, well, I never knew that. It might be a very good thing. I'll speak to some of the members about it. There's two vacancies now in our vestry. I was crushed, but Euphemia tried to put the matter into the brightest light. Perhaps it may all turn out for the best, she said, and you may be elected, and that would be splendid. But it would be an awfully funny thing for a dog-fight to make you a vestryman. I could not talk on this subject. Go on, Pomona, I said, trying to feel resigned to my shame, and tell us about that poster on the fence. I'll be to that almost right away, she said. It was two or three days after the dog-fight that I was down at the barn, and happened to look over to old John's, I saw that tree-man there. He was a show in his book to John, and him and his wife, and all the young ones, was a stand in there, drinking down them big peaches and pears as if they was all real. I knowed he'd come here again, for them fellers never gives you up. And I didn't know how to keep him away, for I didn't want to let the dogs loose on a man what, after all, didn't want to do no more harm than to talk the life out of you. So I just happened to notice, as I came to the house, how kind of desolate everything looked, and I thought perhaps I might make it look worse, and he wouldn't care to deal here. So I thought of putting up a poster like that, for nobody whose place was a going to be sold for taxes would be likely to want trees. So I run in the house, and I wrote it up quick and put it up. And sure enough the man he came along soon, and when he looked at that paper and tried the gate, and looked over the fence and saw the house all shut up and not a living soul about, for I had both the dogs in the house with me. He shook his head and walked off, as much as to say, if that man had fixed his place up proper with my trees, he wouldn't have come to this. And then, as I found the poster worked so good, I thought it might keep other people from coming and bothering around, and so I left it up, but I was going to be sure and take it down before you came. As it was now pretty late in the afternoon, I proposed that Pomona should postpone the rest of her narrative until evening. She said that there was nothing else to tell that was very particular, and I did not feel as if I could stand anything more just now, even if it was very particular. When we were alone, I said to Euphemia, if we ever have to go away from this place again, but we won't go away, she interrupted, looking up to me with as bright a face as she ever had, at least not for a long, long, long time to come. And I'm so glad you're to be a vestryman. CHAPTER XIV Our life at Rutter Grange seemed to be in no way materially changed by my becoming a vestryman. The cow gave about as much milk as before, and the hens laid the usual number of eggs. Euphemia went to church with a little more of an air, perhaps, but as the wardens were never absent, and I was never, therefore, called upon to assist in taking up the collection, her sense of my position was not inordinately manifested. For a year or two, indeed, there was no radical change in anything about Rutter Grange, except in Pomona. In her there was a change. She grew up. She performed this feat quite suddenly. She was a young girl when she first came to us, and we had never considered her as anything else, when one evening she had a young man to see her. Then we knew she had grown up. We made no objections to her visitors, she had several from time to time. Four, said Euphemia, suppose my parents had objected to your visits. I could not consider the mere possibility of anything like this, and we gave Pomona all the ordinary opportunities for entertaining her visitors. To tell the truth, I think we gave her more than the ordinary opportunities. I know that Euphemia would wait on herself to almost any extent, rather than call upon Pomona when the latter was entertaining an evening visitor in the kitchen or on the back porch. Suppose my mother, she once remarked, in answer to a mild remonstrance from me in regard to a circumstance of this nature. Suppose my mother had rushed into our presence when we were plighting our vows, and had told me to go down into the cellar and crack ice. It was of no use to talk to Euphemia on such subjects. She always had an answer ready. You don't want Pomona to go off and be married, do you? I asked, one day, as she was putting up some new Muslim curtains in the kitchen. You seem to be helping her to do this all you can, and yet I don't know where on earth you will get another girl who will suit you so well. I don't know either, replied Euphemia, with attack in her mouth, and I'm sure I don't want her to go. But neither do I want winter to come, or to have to wear spectacles, but I suppose both of these things will happen whether I like it or not. For some time after this Pomona had very little company, and we began to think that there was no danger of any present matrimonial engagement on her part, a thought which was very gratifying to us, although we did not wish in any way to interfere with her prospects, when one afternoon she quietly went up into the village and was married. Her husband was a tall young fellow, a son of a farmer in the county, who had occasionally been to see her, but whom she must have frequently met on her afternoons out. When Pomona came home and told us this news we were certainly well surprised. What on earth are we to do for a girl? cried Euphemia. You're to have me until you can get another one, said Pomona quietly. I hope you don't think I'd go away and leave you without anybody. But a wife ought to go to her husband, said Euphemia, especially so recent to bride. Why didn't you let me know all about it? I would have helped to fit you out. We would have given you the nicest kind of little wedding. I know that, said Pomona. You're just good enough. But I didn't want to put you to all that trouble, right in preserving time, too. And he wanted it quiet for his awful backward about shows. And as I'm to go and live with his folks, at least in a little house on the farm, I might as well stay here as anywhere, even if I didn't want to, for I can't go there till after frost. Why not, I asked. The chills and fever, said she. They have it awful down in that valley. Why, he had a chill while we was being married right at the bridal altar. You don't say so, exclaimed Euphemia. How dreadful. Yes, indeed, said Pomona. He must have forgot it was his chill day and he didn't take his queenine, and so it came on him just as he was a promising to love and protect. But he stuck it out at the minister's house and walked home by himself to finish his chill. And you didn't go with him, cried Euphemia, indignantly. He said no, it was better thus. He felt it weren't the right thing to mingle the auger with his marriage vows. He promised to take sixteen grains tomorrow, and so I came away. He'll be all right in a month or so, and then we'll go and keep house. You see, it ain't likely I could help him any by going there and getting it myself. Pomona, said Euphemia, this is dreadful. You ought to go and take a bridal tour and get him rid of those fearful chills. I never thought of that, said Pomona, her face lighting up wonderfully. Now that Euphemia had fallen upon this happy idea, she never dropped it until she had made all the necessary plans, and had put them into execution. In the course of a week she had engaged another servant, and had started Pomona and her servant off on a bridal tour, stipulating nothing but that they should take plenty of queenine in their trunk. It was about three weeks after this, and Euphemia and I were sitting on our front steps. I had come home early, and we had been potting some of the tenderest plants when Pomona walked in at the gate. She looked well and had on a very bright new dress. Euphemia noticed this the moment she came in. We welcomed her warmly, for we felt a great interest in this girl, who had grown up in our family and under our care. Have you had your bridal trip? asked Euphemia. Oh, yes, said Pomona. It's all over and done with, and we're settled in our house. Well, sit right down here on the steps and tell us about it, said Euphemia, in a glow of delightful expectancy, and Pomona, nothing loth, sat down and told her tell. You see, said she, untying her bonnet strings, to give an easier movement to her chin. We didn't say where we was going when we started out, for the truth was we didn't know. We couldn't afford to take no big trip, and yet we wanted to do the thing up, just as right as we could, seeing as you had your heart set on it, and as we had, too, for that matter. Niagara Falls was what I wanted, but he said that it cost so much to see the sights there that he hadn't money to spare to take us there and pay for all the sights he had, too. We might go, he said, without seeing the sights, or if there was any way of seeing the sights without going, that might do, but he couldn't do both. So we gave that up, and after thinking a good deal, we agreed to go to some other falls, which might come cheaper and may be just as good to begin on. So we thought of Paseac Falls, up to Patterson, and we went there, and took a room at a little hotel, and walked over to the falls. But they wasn't no good after all, for there wasn't no water running over them. There was rocks and precipices, and dire full depths, and everything for a good falls except water, and that was all being used at the mills. Well, Miguel, says I, this is about as nice a place for a falls as ever I see, but Miguel cried, you found me, is that your husband's name? CHAPTER XIV. PAMONA TAKES A BRIDAL TRIP, PART II. Well, no, said Pamona, it isn't. His given name is Jonas, but I hated to call him Jonas, and on a bridal trip, too. He might just as well have had a more romanticer name if his parents had a thought of it. So I determined I'd give him a better one while we was on our journey anyhow, and I changed his name to Miguel, which was the name of a Spanish Count. He wanted me to call him Jiguel, because, he said, that would have had a kind of floating smell of his old name, but I didn't ever do it. Well neither of us didn't care to stay about no dry falls, so we went back to the hotel and got our supper, and began to wonder what we should do the next day. He said we'd better put it off and dream about it and make up our minds next morning, which I agreed to, and that evening, as we was sitting in our room, I asked Miguel to tell me the story of his life. He said at first he hadn't none, but when I seemed to kind of put out at this, he told me I mustn't mind, and he would reveal the whole. So he told me this story. My grandfather said he was a rich and powerful Portuguese, a livin' on the island of Jamaica. He had heaped the slaves and owned a black brigantine that he sailed on secret voyages, and when he come back the decks and the gunnels was often bloody, but nobody knew why or wherefore. He was a big man with black hair and a very violent. He could never have kept no help if he hadn't owned him, but he was so rich that people respected him in spite of all his crimes. My grandmother was a native of the isle of white. She was a frail and tender woman, with yellow hair and deep blue eyes, and gentle and soft and good to the poor. She used to take baskets of vitals around to sick folks, and set down on the side of their beds and reed the shepherd of Salisbury Plains to him. She hardly ever speak'd above her breath, and always wore white gowns with a silk kerchief affolded placidly around her neck. Then was awful different kind of people, I says to him. I wonder how they ever came to be married. They never was married, says he. Never married, I hollers, a jumpin' up from my chair. And you sit there calmly and look me in the eye. Yes, says he. They was never married. They never met. One was my mother's father, and the other one my father's mother. Twas well they did not wed. I should think so, said I. And now what's the good of tellin' me a thing like that? It's about as near the mark as most of the stories of people's lives, I reckon, says he. And besides, I'd only just begun it. Well, I don't want no more, says I. And I just tell this story of his to show what kind of stories he told me about that time. He said they was pleasant fictions, but I told him that if he didn't look out he'd hear him called by a good deal worse kind of a name than that. The next morning he asked me what was my dream, and I told him I didn't have exactly no dream about it, but my idea was to have something real romantic for the rest of our bridal days. Well, says he, what would you like? I had a dream, but it wasn't in no way as romantic, and I'd just fall in with whether ever you'd like best. All right, says I, and the most romanticest thing I can think of is for us to make believe for the rest of this trip. We can make believe or anything we please, and if we think so in real earnest it will be pretty much the same thing as if we really was. We ain't likely to have no chance, again, of being just what we were mine to, so let's try it now. What would you have a mind to be, says he. Well, says I, let's be an Earl and an Earl S. Earl S, says he, there's no such a person. Why, yes, there is a course, I says to him. What's a she, Earl, if she isn't an Earl S? Well, I don't know, says he, but I never haven't lived with any of them, but we'll let it go at that. And how do you want to work the thing out? This way, says I, you, Miguel, Gigal, says he. The Earl, says I, not minding his interruption, and me, your noble Earl S, will go to some place or the other. It don't matter just where, and whatever house we'll live in we'll call our castle. And we'll consider it's got drawbridges and portcullises and moats and secret dungeons, and we'll remember our noble ancestors and behave according. And the people we meet, we can make into counts and dukes and princes without their knowing anything about it, and we can think our clothes as silk and satin and velvet, all covered with dimmems and precious stones just as well as not. Just as well, says he. And then I went on, we can go and have chivalrous adventures or make-believe we're having them, and build up an atmosphere of romanticness around us that'll carry us back to Old Virginia, says he. No, says he, for thousands of years or at least enough back for the times of tournaments and chivalry. And so your idea is that if we make-believe all these things and don't pay for none of them, is it? Says he. Yes, says I. And you, Miguel, Jiguel, says he. Can ask me if you don't know what chivalric or romantic thing you ought to do or say so as to feel yourself truly and really an Earl, for I've read a lot about these people and know just what ought to be did. Well, he set himself down and thought awhile, and then he says, all right, we'll do that, and we'll begin tomorrow morning for I've got a little business to do in the city, which wouldn't be exactly the right thing for me to stoop to do after I'm an Earl. So I'll go in and do it while I'm a common person and come back this afternoon, and you can walk about and look at the dry falls and amuse yourself generally till I come back. All right, says I, and off he goes. He come back a four dark and the next morning we got ready to start off. Have you any particular place to go, says he? No, says I. One place is as likely to be as good as another for our style of thing. If it don't suit, we can imagine it does. That'll do, says he. And we had our trunk sent to the station and walked ourselves. When we got there, he says to me, which number will you have, five or seven? Either one will suit me, Earl Miguel, says I. Jigel, says he, and we'll make it seven. And now I'll go and look at the timetable and we'll buy tickets for the seventh station from here. The seventh station, he says, coming back, is Pocas. We'll go to Pocas. So when the train come, we got in and got out at Pocas. It was a pretty sort of a place out in the country where the house is scattered a long ways apart like stingy chicken feed. Let's walk down this road, says he, till we come to a good house for a castle. And then we can ask them to take us to board and if they won't do it, we'll go to the next and so on. All right, says I, glad enough to see how Pat, he had entered into the thing. We walked a good ways and passed some little houses that neither of us thought would do without more imagining than would pay till we came to a pretty big house near the river which struck our fancy in a minute. It was a stone house and it had trees around it. There was a garden with a wall and things seemed to suit first rate. So we made up our minds right off that we tried this place. You wait here under this tree, says he, and I'll go and ask them if they'll take us to board for a while. So I wait, and he goes up to the gate and pretty soon he comes out and says, all right, they'll take us and they'll send a man with a wheel-bearer to the station for our trunk. So in we goes. The man was a country-like-looking man and his wife was a very pleasant woman. The house wasn't furnished very fine but we didn't care for that. And they gave us a big room that had rafters instead of a ceiling and a big fireplace in that, I said, was just exactly what we wanted. The room was almost like a dungeon itself which he said he reckoned had once been a kitchen but I told him that an earl had nothing to do with kitchens and that this was a tapestry chamber and I'd tell him all about the strange figures on the embroidered hangings when the shatters began to fall. It rained a little that afternoon and we stayed in our room and hung our clothes and things about on nails and hooks and made believe they was armor and ancient trophies and portraits of a long line of ancestors. I did most of the make-believe in but he agreed to everything. The man who kept the house's wife brought us our supper about dark because she said she thought we might like to have it together cozy and so we did and was glad enough of it. And after supper we sat before the fireplace where we made believe the flames was a roaring and crackling and lightened up the bright places on the armor hanging around. Well the storm, which we made believe was a raging and horrid outside. I told him a long story about a lord and lady which was two or three stories I had read run together and we had a splendid time. It all seemed real real to me. End of section 28. Section 29 of Rudder Grange. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Rudder Grange by Frank R. Stockton. Chapter 15. In which two new friends disport themselves. Part one. The next morning was fine and nice continued Pomona and after our breakfast had been brought to us we went out in the gardens to take a walk. There was lots of trees back of the house with walks among them and altogether it was so old-timey and castle-ish that I was happy as a lark. Come along Earl McGill, I says. Let us tread a measure near these mantlin trees. All right, says he. Your Jigel attends you. And what might our noble second name be? What is we Earl and Earl S. of? Oh anything, says I. Let's take any name at random. All right, says he. Let it be random. Earl and Earl S. random. Come along. So he walks about. I feel in mighty noble and springy and a forelong we sees another couple a walkin' about under the trees. Who's them, says I. Don't know, says he, but I expect there are some over the other borders. The man said he had other borders when I spoke to him about takin' us. Let's make believe there are count and countess, I says. Count and countess of Milwaukee, says he. I didn't think much of this for a noble name, but still it would do well enough. And so we called him the count and countess of Milwaukee and we kept on a marandering. Pretty soon he gets tired and says he was a goin' back to the house to have a smoke, because he thought it was time to have a little fun, which weren't all imaginations and I says to him to go along, but it would be the hardest thing in this world for me to imagine any fun in smokin'. He laughed and went back while I walked on, I makin' and believe a page in puffed blue breeches was a holdin' up my train, which was of light green velvet trimmed with silver lace. Pretty soon, turnin' a little corner, I met the count and countess of Milwaukee. She was a small lady dressed in black and he was a big fat man about 50 years old with a grayish beard. They both wore little straw hats exactly alike and had on green carpet slippers. They stops when they sees me and the lady she bows and says good morning and then she smiles very pleasant and asks if I was a livin' here and when I said I was, she said she was too for the present and what was my name. I had half a mind to say the earless random, but she was so pleasant and sociable that I didn't like to seem to be makin' fun, so I said I was Mrs. De Henderson and I says she and Mrs. General Andrew Jackson, widow of the ex-president of the United States. I am staying here on business connected with the United States Bank. This is my brother, says she, pointin' to the big man. How do you do, says he, a puttin' his hands together, turnin' his toes out and makin' a funny little bow. I am General Tom Thumb, he says in a deep gruff voice and I've been before all the crowned heads of Europe, Asia, Africa, America, and Australia, all adds but one and I'm a waitin' here for a team of four little milk-wide oxen, no bigger than tall cats, which is to be hitched to a little hay-wacken, which I am to ride in with a little pitchfork and real farmer's clothes only small. This will come tomorrow when I will pay for it and ride away to exhibit. It may be here now and I will go and see. Goodbye. Goodbye likewise, says the lady. I hope you'll have all your thinkin' you're havin' and more, too, but less if you'd like it. Farewell, and away they goes. Well, you may be sure I stood there amazed enough and mad, too, when I heard her talk about my being and all I was a thinkin' I was. I was sure my husband, scarce two weeks old a husband, had told all. It was bad. I just wished I'd said I was the earless of random and brassed it out. I rushed back and found him smokin' a pipe on the back porch. I charged him with his perfidity, but he vowed so earnest that he had not told those people of our fantasies or had ever spoke to him that I had to believe him. I expect, says he, that they're just makin' believe as we are. There ain't no patent on mak' believes. This didn't satisfy me, and as he seemed to be so careless about it, I walked away and left him to his pipe. I determined to go take a long walk along some of the country roads and think this thing over for myself. I went around to the front gate, where the woman of the house was a standin' talkin' to somebody, and I just bowed to her, for I didn't feel like sayin' anything, and walked past her. Hello, said she, jumpin' in front of me and shuttin' the gate. You can't go out there. If you want to walk, you can walk about in the grounds. There's lots of shady paths. Can't go out, says I. Can't go out. What do you mean by that? I mean just what I say, says she, and she locked the gate. I was so mad that I coulda pushed her over and broke the gate, but I thought that if there was anything of that kind to do, I had a husband whose business it was to attend to it. And so I runs around to him to tell him. He had gone in, but I met Mrs. Jackson and her brother. What's the matter, said she, seein' what a hurry I was in? That woman at the gate, I said, almost chokin' as I spoke, won't let me out. She won't, said Mrs. Jackson. Well, that's the way she has. Four times the Bank of the United States has closed its doors before I was able to get there on account of that woman's obscenacy about the gate. Indeed, I have not been to the bank at all yet, for of course it is of no use to go after banking hours. And I believe, too, said her brother in his heavy voice, that she has kept out my little team of oxen. Otherwise it would be here now. I couldn't stand any more of this and ran to our room where my husband was. When I told him what had happened, he was real sorry. I didn't know you thought of going out, he said, or I would have told you all about it. And now sit down and quiet yourself, and I'll just tell you how things is. So down we sits, and just he, just as calm as a summer day, says, my dear, this is a lunar tick asylum. Now don't jump, he says, I didn't bring you here because I thought you was crazy, but because I wanted you to see what kind of people they was who imagined themselves earl and earlesses and all sort of things, and to have an idea how the thing worked after you'd been doing it a good while and had got used to it. I thought it would be a good thing while I was Earl Jigel and you was a noble earless to come to a place where people acted that way. I knowed you had read lots of books about knights and princes and bloody towers, and that you knowed all about them things, but I didn't suppose you did know how them same things looked in these days, and a lunar tick asylum was the only place where you could see them. So I went to a doctor I knowed, he says, and got a certificate from him to this private institution where we could stay for a while and get posted on Romantics. Then says I, the upshot was that you wanted to teach a lesson. Just that, says he. All right, says I, it's teached, and now let us get out of this as quick as we can. That'll suit me, he says, and we'll leave by the noon train. I'll go and see about the trunk being set down. So off he went to see the man who kept the house while I falls to pack in up the trunk as fast as I could. Weren't you dreadfully angry at him? Asked Euphemia, who, having a Romantic streak in her own composition, did not sympathize altogether with this heroic remedy for Pomona's disease. No, ma'am, said Pomona, not long. When I thought of Mrs. General Jackson and Tom Thumb, I couldn't help thinking that I must have looked pretty much the same to my husband, who I knowed now had only been make and believe to make believe. And besides, I couldn't be angry very long for laughing when he came back in a minute, as mad as a March Hare, and said they wouldn't let me out nor him nother, I fell to laughing ready to crack my sides. They say, said he, as soon as he could speak straight, that we can't go out without another certificate from the doctor. I told him I'd go myself and see about it, but they said no, I couldn't, for if they did that way everybody who was ever sent here would be going out the next day to see about leaving. I didn't want to make no fuss, so I told them I'd write a letter to the doctor and tell him to send an order that would soon show them whether we could go out or not. They said that would be the best thing to do, and so I'm going to write it this minute, which he did. How long will we have to wait, says I, when the letter was done. Well, says he, the doctor can't get this before tomorrow morning, and even if he answers right away, we won't get our order to go out until the next day. So we'll just have to grin and bear it for a day and a half. This is a lively old bridal trip, said I, dry falls and a lunar tick asylum. We'll try to make the rest of it better, said he. But the next day wasn't no better. We stayed in our room all day, for we didn't care to meet Mrs. Jackson and her crazy brother, and I'm sure we didn't want to see the mean creatures who kept the house. We knew well enough that they only wanted us to say so that they could get some more board money out of us. I should have broken out, cried ephemia. I would never have stayed an hour in that place after I found out what it was, especially on a bridal trip. If we'd done that, said Pomona, they'd have got men after us, and then everybody would have thought we was real crazy. We made up our minds to wait for the doctor's letter, but it wasn't much fun, and I didn't tell no romantic stories to fill up this time. We sat down and behaved like the commonest kind of people. You never saw anybody sicker of romantics than I was when I thought of them two loons that called themselves Mrs. Andrew Jackson and General Tom Thumb. I dropped Miguel altogether, and he dropped Jiguel, which was a relief to me, and I took strong to Jonas, even Collin M. Joan, which I consider a good deal uglier and commoner even than Jonas. He didn't like this much, but said that if it would help me out of the Miguel, he didn't care. End of section 29. Section 30 of Rudder Grange. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Rudder Grange by Frank R. Stockton. Chapter 15, in which two new friends disport themselves, part two. Well, on the morning of the next day, I went into the little front room that they called the office to see if there was a letter for us yet, and there wasn't nobody there to ask. But I saw a pile of letters under a weight on the table, and I just looked at these to see if one of them was for us, and if there wasn't the very letter Joan had written to the doctor. They'd never sent it. I rushed back to Joan and tells him, and he just sat and looked at me without saying a word. I didn't wonder he couldn't speak. I'll go and let them people know what I think of them, says I. Don't do that, said Joan, catching me by the sleeve. It won't do no good. Leave the letter there and don't say nothing about it. We'll stay here till afternoon quite quiet, and then we'll go away. That garden wall isn't high enough. And how about the trunk, says I. Oh, we'll take a few things in our pockets and lock up the trunk and ask the doctor to send for it when we get to the city. All right, says I, and we went to work to get ready to leave. About five o'clock in the afternoon, when it was a nice time to take a walk under the trees, we meandered quietly down to a corner of the back wall, where Joan thought it would be rather convenient to get over. He hunted up a short piece of board, which he leaned up again the wall, and then he put his foot on the top of that and got a hold of the top of the wall and climbed up as easy as nothing. Then he reached down to help me step onto the board. But just as he was a-going to take me by the hand, hello, says he, looka there, and I turned around and look, and if there wasn't Mrs. Andrew Jackson and General Tom Thumb a-walkin' down the path. What shall we do, says I. Come along, says he, we ain't a-going to stop for them. Get up all the same. I tried to get up, as he said, but it wasn't so easy for me on account of my not bein' such a high stepper as Joan, and I was a good while gettin' a good footin' on the board. Mrs. Jackson and the General, they came right up to us and sat down on a bench, which was fastened between two trees near the wall, and there they set a lookin' steady at us with their little fore-eyes like four empty thimbles. You appear to be goin' away, said Mrs. Jackson. Yes, says Joan, from the top of the wall. We are goin' to take a slight stroll outside, this salubrious evening. Do you think, says she, that the United States Bank would be open this time of day? Oh no, says Joan, the bank's all closed at three o'clock. It's a good deal after that now. But if I told the officers who I was, wouldn't that make a difference, says she. Wouldn't they go down and open the bank? Not much, says Joan, given a pull, which brought me right up to the top of the wall and almost cleaned down the other side with one jerk. I never know no officers that would do that, but, says he, kind of shuttin' his eyes so that she couldn't see he was lyin'. We'll talk about that when we come back. If you see that little team of oxen, says the man, send them round to the front gate. All right, says Joan, and he let me down the outside of the wall as if I had been a bag of horse feed. But if the bank isn't open, you can't pay for it when it does come. We heard the old lady assayin' as we hurried off. We didn't lose no time goin' down to that station, and it's lucky we didn't, for a train for the city was comin' just as we got there, and we jumped aboard without havin' no time to buy tickets. There wasn't many people in our car, and we got a seat together. Now then, says Joan, as the cars went to buzzin' along, I feel as if I was really on a bridal trip, which I must say I didn't at that there asylum. And then I said, I should think not, and we both just bust out a laughin', as well we might, feelin' such a chains of surroundings. Do you think, says somebody behind us, when we got through laughin', that if I was to send a boy up to the cashier, he would either come down or send me the key of the bank? We both turned around as quick as lightning, and if there wasn't them two lunatics in the seat behind us. It nearly took our breaths away to see them settin' there, starein' at us with their thimble eyes, and awarein' their little straw hats both alike. How on the livin' earth did you two get here, says I, as soon as I could speak? Oh, we came by the same way you came, by the temporary stairs, says Mrs. Jackson. We thought if it was too late to draw any money tonight, it might be well to be on hand, bright and early in the mornin', and so we followed you two as close as we could, because we knew you could take us right to the very bank doors, and we didn't know the way ourselves, not never havin' had no occasion to attend to nothin' of this kind before. Joan and I looked at each other, but we didn't speak for a minute. Then, said I, here's a pretty kettle of fish. I should kind of say so, says Joan. We got these two here lunatics on our hands, sure enough, for there ain't no train back to Pocas tonight, and I wouldn't go back with them if there was. We must keep an eye on them till we can see the doctor tomorrow. I suppose we must, said I, but this don't seem as much like a bridal trip as it did a while ago. You're right there, says Joan. When the conductor came along, we had to pay the fare of them two lunatics beside our own, for neither of them had a cent about them. When we got to town, we went to a smallish hotel near the ferry, where Joan knowed the man who kept it, who wouldn't bother about none of us having a scrap of baggage, knowing he'd get his money all the same, out of either Joan or his father. The general and his sister looked a kind of funny in their little straw hat and green carpet slippers, and the clerk didn't know whether he hadn't forgot how to read writing when the big man put down the names of General Tom Thumb and Mrs. X president Andrew Jackson, which he wasn't X president anyway, being dead, but Joan, he whispered that they was traveling under Nami's Des Plumes, I told him to say that, and he would fix it all right in the morning. And when we got some supper, which it took them two lunatics a long time to eat, for they was all the time forgetin' what particular kind of business they was about, and then we was showed to our rooms. They had the two rooms right across the hall for mowers. We hadn't been inside our room five minutes before Mrs. General Jackson come a knockin' at the door. Looka here, she says to me. There's an unforeseen contingency in my room, and it smells. So I went right in, and sure enough it did smell, for she had turned on all the gases, besides the one that was lighted. What did you do that for, I says, at turning them off as fast as I could? I'd like to know what they're made for, she says, if they isn't to be turned on. When I told Joan about this, he looked real serious, and just then a waiter came upstairs and went into the big man's room. In a minute he come out and says to Joan and me, a grinning, we can't suit him no better in this house. What does he want, asked Joan. Why, he wants a smaller bed, says the waiter. He says he can't sleep in a bed as big as that, and we have it none smaller in this house, which he couldn't get into if we had, in my opinion, says he. All right, says Joan. Just you go downstairs and I'll fix him. So the man goes off still a grinning. I tell you what it is, says Joan. It won't do to let them two lunatics have rooms to themselves. They'll set this house afire or turn it upside down in the middle of the night if they has. There's nothing to be done, but for you to sleep with the woman, for me to sleep with the man, and to keep him from cutting up till morning. So Joan, he went into the room where General Tom Thumb was a settin' with his hat on, a lookin' doful at the bed, and says he, what's the matter with the bed? Oh, it's too large entirely, says the general. It wouldn't do for me to sleep in a bed like that. It would ruin my character as a genuine thumb. Well, says Joan. It's nearly two times too big for you, but if you and me was both to sleep in it, it would be about right, wouldn't it? Oh yes, says the general, and he takes off his hat, and Joan says goodnight to me and shuts the door. Our room was better than Mrs. General Jackson's, so I takes her in there, and the first thing she does is to turn on all the gases. Stop that, I hollers. If you do that again, I'll break the United States Bank tomorrow. How you do that, says she. I'll draw out all my capital, says I. I really hope you won't, says she, till I've been there, and she leans out of the open window to look into the street. But while she was a-looking out, I see her left-handed creeping up to the gas by the window that wasn't lighted. I felt mad enough to take her by the feet and picture out, as you in the border, said Pomona, turning to me, heisted me out of the canalboat window. This, by the way, was the first intimation we had that Pomona knew how she came to fall out of that window. But I didn't do it, she continued, for there wasn't no soft water underneath for her to fall into. After we went to bed, I kept awake for a long time, being afraid she'd get up in the night and turn on all the gases and smother me alive. But I fell asleep at last, and when I woke up early in the morning, the first thing I did was to feel for that lunatic. But she was gone. End of section 30. Section 31 of Rudder Grange. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Rudder Grange by Frank R. Stockton. Chapter 16. In which an old friend appears and the bridal trip takes a fresh start. Gone, cried Euphemia, who with myself had been listening most intently to Pomona's story. Yes, continued Pomona, she was gone. I give one jump out of bed and felt the gases, but they was all right. But she was gone and her clothes was gone. I dressed as pale as death, I do expect, and hurried to Joan's room, and he and me and the big man was all ready to go in no time and look for her. General Tom Thumb didn't seem very anxious, but we made him hurry up and come along with us. We couldn't afford to leave him nowhere. The clerk downstairs, a different one from the chap who was there the night before, said that a middle-aged, elderly lady came down about an hour before and asked him to tell her the way to the United States Bank. And when he told her that he didn't know of any such bank, she just stared at him and wanted to know what he was put there for. So he didn't have no more to say to her, and she went out, and he didn't take no notice which way she went. We had the same opinion about him that Mrs. Jackson had, but we didn't stop to tell him so. We hunted up and down the streets for an hour or more. We asked every policeman we met if he'd seen her. We went to a police station. We did everything we could think of, but no Mrs. Jackson turned up. Then we was so tired and hungry that we went into some place or other and got our breakfast. When we started out again, we kept on up one street and down another and asking everybody who looked as if they had two grains of scents, which most of them didn't look as if they had more than one, and that was in use to get them where they was going. At last, a little ways down a small street, we see it a crowd, and the minute we see it, Joan and me both said in our inside hearts, there she is, and sure enough, when we got there, who should we see with a string of street loafers and boys around her but Mrs. Andrew Jackson, with her little straw hat and her green carpet slippers, a dance in some kind of skip and fandango and a holdin' outer skirts with the tips of her fingers. I was just to go into rush in and grab her when a man walks quick into the ring and touches her on the shoulder. The minute I see'd him, I knowed him. It was our old border. It was, exclaimed Euphemia. Yes, it was truly him, and I didn't want him to see me there in such company, and he most likely knowin' that I was on my bridal trip. So I made a dive at my bonnet to see if I had a veil on, and findin' one I hauled it down. Madam, says the border, very respectful to Mrs. Jackson, where do you live? Can't I take you home? No, sir, says she, at least not now. If you have a carriage, you may come for me after a while. I am waiting for the Bank of the United States to open, and until which time I must support myself on the light fantastic toe, and then she took up her skirts and began to dance again. But she didn't make more than two steps before I rushed in, and takin' her by the arm hauled her out of the ring. And then up comes the big man with his face as red as fire. Look here, says he to her, as if he was ready to eat her up. Did you draw every cent of that money? Not yet, not yet, says she. You did, you purse-proud cantaloupe, says he. You know very well you did, and now I'd like to know where my ox money is to come from. But Joan and me didn't intend to wait for no such talk as this, and he took the man by the arm, and I took the old woman, and we just walked him off. The border he told the loafers to get out and go home, and none of them followed us, for they knowed if they did, he'd abatted them over the head. But he comes up alongside of me, as I was a walkin' behind with Mrs. Jackson, and he says, how do you do, Pomona? I must say I felt as if I could slip in between two flagstones, but as I couldn't get away, I said I was pretty well. I heard you was on your bridal trip, says he again. Is this it? It was just like him to know that, and as there was no help for it, I said it was. Is that your husband? Says he, pointin' to Joan. Yes, says I. It was very good in him to come along, says he. Is this your two groomsmen and bridesmaid? No, sir, says I, they're crazy. No wonder, says he, it's enough to drive him so to see you two, and then he went ahead and shook hands with Joan, and told him he knowed me a long time, but he didn't say nothin' about havin' hoisted me out of a window, for which I was obliged to him. And then he came back to me and says to he, good mornin', I must go to the office. I hope you'll have a good time for the rest of your trip. If you happen to run short of lunatics, just let me know, and I'll furnish you with another pair. All right, says I, but you mustn't bring your little girl along. He kinda laughed at this, as we walked away, and then he turned around and come back, and says he, have you been to any theaters or anything since you've been in town? No, says I, not one. Well, says he, you ought to go. Which do you like best, theaters, the circus, or wild beasts? I did really like the theater best, havin' thought of bein' a play actor, as you know, but I considered I'd better let that kinda thing slide just now, as I'd bein' a little too romantic, right after the asylum. And so I says, I've been once to a circus and once to a wild beast garden, and I like them both. I hardly know which I like best, the roaring beasts apprancin' about in their cages with the smell of blood and hay, and the towerin' elephants, or the horses, and the music, and all the gauzy figures at the circus, and the splendid knights and armor, and flashin' penance, all on fiery steeds, a plunge in again the side of the ring with their flags of flying in the grand entry, says I, real excited about what I remembered about these shows. Well, says he, I don't wander at your feelings. And now here's two tickets for tonight, which you and your husband can have, if you like, for I can't go. There to a meeting of the Hudson County Intermological Society over to Hoboken at eight o'clock. Over to Hoboken, says I, that's a long way. Oh, no it isn't, says he, and it won't cost you a cent but the ferry. They couldn't have them shows in the city, for if the creature's was to get loose, there's no knowin' what might happen. So take them and have as much fun as you can for the rest of your trip. Goodbye, and off he went. Well, we kept straight on to the doctors, and glad we was when we got there, and mad he was when we left Mrs. Jackson and the general on his hands, for we wouldn't have no more to do with him, and he couldn't help undertaken to see that they got back to the asylum. I thought at first he wouldn't lift a finger to get us our trunk, but he cooled down after a bit, and said he hoped we'd try a different kind of institution for the rest of our trip, which we said we thought we would. That afternoon we gawked around, a lookin' at all the outside shows, for Jones said he'd have to be pretty careful of his money now, and he was glad when I told him I had two free tickets in my pocket for a show in the evening. As we was a walkin' down to the ferry after supper, says he, suppose you let me have a look at them tickets, so I hands them to him. He reads one of them, and he reads the other, which he needed done, for they was both alike, and then he turns to me and says, what kind of a man is your border as was? It wasn't the easiest thing in the world to say just what he was, but I gave Jones the idea in a general sort of a way that he was pretty lively. So I should think, says he. He's been tryin' a trick on us and sendin' us to the wrong place. It's rather late in the season for a show of the kind, but the place we ought to go is to a potato field. End of Section 31. Section 32 of Rutter Grange. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Chapter 16, in which an old friend appears and the bridal trip takes a fresh start. What on earth are you talkin' about? Says I, dumb foundred. Well, says he, it's a trick he's been playin'. He thought a bridal trip like ours ought to have some sort of an outlandish wind-up, and so he sent us to this place, which is a meetin' of chaps who are goin' to talk about insects, principally potato bugs, I expect, and anything stupider than that, I suppose your border as was couldn't think of without havin' a good deal of time to consider. It's just like him, says I, let's turn around and go back, which we did prompt. We gave the tickets to a little boy who was sellin' papers, but I don't believe he went. Now then, says Joan, after he'd been thinkin' awhile, there'll be no more foolin' on this trip. I've blocked out the whole of the rest of it, and will wind up a sight better than that border as was has any idea of. Tomorrow we'll go to the Fathers and see if the old gentleman has got any money on the crops, which I expect he has by this time, and I'll take up a part of my share, and we'll have a trip to Washington and see the President and Congress and the White House, and the lamp always a-burnin' before the Supreme Court, and don't say no more, says I, it's splendid. So early the next day we goes off just as fast as the trains would take us to his Fathers, and we hadn't been there more than 10 minutes before Joan found out he had been summoned on a jury. When must you go, says I, when he'd come back lookin' kinda pale to tell me this? Right off, says he, the Court meets this mornin' it. If I don't hurry up, I'll have some of him after me. But I wouldn't cry about it. I don't believe the case'll last mornin' a day. The old man harnessed up and took Joan to the Courthouse, and I went to, for I might as well keep up the idea of a bridal trip as not. I went up to the gallery, and Joan, he was set among the other men in the jury box. The case was about a man named Brown, who married the half-sister of a man named Adams, who afterward married Brown's mother, and sold Brown a house he had got from Brown's grandfather in trade for half a grist meal, which the other half was owned by Adams's half-sister's first husband, who left all his property to a soup society in trust till his son should come of age, which he never did, but left a will in which he gave his half to the mill to Brown, and the suit was between Brown and Adams and Brown again, and Adams's half-sister, who was divorced from Brown, and a man named Ramsay, who had put up a new overshot wheel to the grist meal. Oh, my, exclaimed Euphemia, how could you remember all that? I heard it so often I couldn't help remembering it, replied Pomona, and she went on with her narrative. That case wasn't an easy one to understand, as you may see for yourselves, and it didn't get finished that day. They argued over it a full week. When there wasn't no more witnesses to Carba, one lawyer made a speech, and he set that crooked case so straight that you could see through it from the overshot wheel clean back to Brown's grandfather. Then another feller made a speech, and he set the whole thing up another way. It was just as clear to look through, but it was another case altogether, no more like the other than an apple pie is to a mug of cider. And then they both took it up, and they swung it around between them, till it was all twisted and knotted and wound up and tangled, worse than a skinny yarn in a nest of kittens, and then they give it to the jury. Well, when them jury men went out, there wasn't none of them, as Joan told me afterward, as knew whether Iz was Brown or Adams as was dead, whether the mill was to grind soup or be run by soup power. Of course they couldn't agree. Three of them wanted to give a verdict for the boy that died. Two of them was for Brown's grandfather, and the West was scattered. Some going in for damages to the witnesses, who want to get something for having their characters ruined. Joan, he just held back, ready to join the other 11 as soon as they'd agree. But they couldn't do it, and they was locked up three days and four nights. You'd better believe I got pretty wild about it, but I come to court every day and waited and waited, bringing something to eat in a basket. One day at dinnertime I see the judge standing at the courtroom door, a wipe in his forehead with a handkerchief. And I went up to him and said, do you think, sir, they'll get through this thing soon? I can't say indeed, said he. Are you interested in the case? I should think I was, said I. And then in there I told him about Joan's being a juryman and how we was on our bridal trip. You've got my sympathy, madam, says he, but it's a difficult case to decide, and I don't wonder it takes a good while. Nor I, another, says I, and my opinion about these things is that if you just have them lawyers shut up in another room and make them do their talk unto themselves, the jury could keep their minds clear and settle the cases in no time. There's some sense in that, madam, says he, and then he went into the court again. Joan never had no chance to join with the other fellers for they couldn't agree and they were all discharged at last. So the whole thing went for nothing. When Joan come out, he looked as if he'd been drawn through a pump log and he says to me, tired like, has there been a frost? Yes, says I, two of them. All right, then, says he. I've had enough of bridal trips with their dryfalls, their lunatic asylums and their jury boxes. Let's go home and settle down. We needn't be afraid now that there's been a frost. Oh, why will you live in such dreadful place? cried Euphemia. You ought to go somewhere where you needn't be afraid of chills. That's just what I thought, ma'am, returned Pomona, but Joan and me got a disease map of this country and we looked all over it careful and wherever there wasn't chills, there was something that seemed a good deal worse to us. And Joan says, if I'm to have anything to matter with me, give me something I'm used to. It don't do for a man in my time of life to go changing his diseases. So home we went. And there we is now. And as this is the end of the bridal trip story, I'll go take a look at the cow and the chickens and the horse, if you don't mind. Which we didn't, and we gladly went with her over the estate. End of section 32. Section 33 of Rudder Grange. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Rudder Grange by Frank R. Stockton. Chapter 17. In which we take a vacation and look for David Dutton, part one. It was about noon of a very fair July day in the next summer when Euphemia and myself arrived at the little town where we were to take the stage up into the mountains. We were off for a two weeks vacation and our minds were a good deal easier than when we went away before and left Pomona at the helm. We had enlarged the boundaries of Rudder Grange, having purchased the house, with enough adjoining land to make it quite a respectable farm. Of course I could not attend to the manifold duties on such a place and my wife seldom had a happier thought than when she proposed that we should invite Pomona and her husband to come and live with us. Pomona was delighted and Jonas was quite willing to run our farm. So arrangements were made and the young couple were established in apartments in our back building and went to work as if taking care of us and our possessions was the ultimate object of their lives. Jonas was such a steady fellow that we feared no trouble from either tree-man or lightning-rotter during this absence. Our destination was a country tavern on the stage road not far from the point where the road crosses the ridge of the mountain range and about 16 miles from the town. We had heard of this tavern from a friend of ours who had spent a summer there. The surrounding country was lovely and the house was kept by a farmer who was a good soul and tried to make his guests happy. These were generally passing farmers and wagoners or stage passengers stopping for a meal but occasionally a person from the cities like our friend came to spend a few weeks in the mountains. So hither we came for an out-of-the-world spot like this was just what we wanted. When I took our places at the stage office I inquired for David Dutton, the farmer tavern keeper before mentioned but the agent did not know of him. However, said he, the driver knows everybody on the road and he'll set you down at the house. So off we started having paid for our tickets on the basis that we were to ride about 16 miles. We had seats on top and the trip although slow for the road wound steadily uphill was a delightful one. Our way lay for the greater part of the time through the woods but now and then we came to a farm and a turn in the road often gave us a lovely views of the foothills and the valley behind us. But the driver did not know where Dutton's tavern was. This we found out after we had started. Some persons might have thought it wiser to settle this matter before starting but I am not at all sure that it would have been so. We were going to this tavern and did not wish to go anywhere else. If people did not know where it was it would be well for us to go and look for it. We knew the road that it was on and the locality in which it was to be found. Still it was somewhat strange that a stage driver passing along the road every weekday one day one way and the next day the other way should not know a public house like Dutton's. If I remember rightly I said the stage used to stop there for passengers to take supper. Well then it ain't on this side of the ridge said the driver, we stopped for supper about a quarter of a mile on the other side at Pete Lowry's. Perhaps Dutton used to keep that place. Was it called the Ridge House? I did not remember the name of the house but I knew very well that it was not on the other side of the ridge. Then said the driver, I'm sure I don't know where it is but I've only been on the road about a year and your man may have moved away before I come but there ain't no tavern this side of the ridge after you leave Delhi and that's nowhere's neither ridge. There were a couple of farmers who were sitting by the driver and who had listened with considerable interest to this conversation. Presently one of them turned around to me and said, is it Dave Dutton you're asking about? Yes, I replied, that's his name. Well, I think he's dead, said he. At this I began to feel uneasy and I could see that my wife shared my trouble. Then the other farmer spoke up. I don't believe he's dead Hiram, said he to his companion. I heard of him this spring. He's got a sheep farm on the other side of the mountain and he's a living there. That's what I heard at any rate but he don't live on this road anymore. He continued turning to us. He used to keep a tavern on this road and the stages did used to stop for supper or else dinner I don't just recollect which but he don't keep tavern on this road no more. Of course not said his companion if he's a living over the mountain but I believe he's dead. I asked the other farmer if he knew how long it had been since Dutton had left this part of the country. I don't know for certain he said but I know he was keeping tavern here two year ago this fall for I came along here myself and stopped there to get dinner or supper I don't just recollect which. It had been three years since our friend had boarded at Dutton's house. There was no doubt that the man was not living in his old place now. My wife and I now agreed that it was very foolish in us to have come so far without making more particular inquiries but we had had an idea that a man who had a place like Dutton's tavern would live there always. What are you going to do? Asked the driver very much interested for it was not every day that he had passengers who had lost their destination. You might go on to Lowry's he takes borders sometimes but Lowry's did not attract us an ordinary country tavern where stage passengers took supper was not what we had come so far to find. Do you know where this house of Dutton's is? said the driver to the man who had once taken either dinner or supper there. Oh yes I'd know the house well enough if I saw it. It's the first house this side of Lowry's with a big pole in front of it asked the driver. Yes there was a sign pole in front of it and a long porch. Yes. Oh well said the driver settling himself in his seat. I know all about that house. That's an empty house. I didn't think you meant that house. There's nobody lives there. And yet now I come to remember I have seen people about too. I tell you what you better do. Since you're so set on staying this side of the ridge you better let me put you down at Dan Carson's place. That's just about a quarter of a mile from where Dutton used to live. Dan's wife can tell you all about the Dutton's and about everybody else too in this part of the country. And if there ain't nobody living at the old tavern you can stay all night at Carson's and I'll stop and take you back tomorrow when I come along. We agreed to this plan for there was nothing better to be done and late in the afternoon we were set down with our small trunk for we were traveling under lightweight at Dan Carson's door. The stage was rather behind time and the driver whipped up and left us to settle our own affairs. He called back however that he would keep a good look out for us tomorrow. Mrs. Carson soon made her appearance and very naturally was somewhat surprised to see visitors with their baggage standing on her little porch. She was a plain, coarsely dressed woman with an apron full of chips and kindling wood and a fine mind for detail as we soon discovered. Just so said she putting down the chips and inviting us to seats on a bench. Dave Dutton's folks is all moved away. Dave has a good farm on the other side of the mountain and it never did pay him to keep that tavern especially as he didn't sell liquor. When he went away his son Al come there to live with his wife and the old men left a good deal of furniture and things for him but Al's wife ain't satisfied here and though they've been here off and on the house is shut up most of the time. It's for sale and to rent both if anybody wants it. I'm sorry about you too for it was a nice tavern when Dave kept it. We admitted that we were very sorry and the kind hearted woman showed a great deal of sympathy. You might stay here but we ain't got no fit room where you two could sleep. At this euphemia and I looked very blank but you could go up to the house and stay just as well as not Mrs. Carson continued. There's plenty of things there and I keep the key. For the matter of that you might take the house for as long as you want to stay. Dave would be glad enough to rent it and if the lady knows how to keep house it wouldn't be no trouble at all just for you two. We could let you have all the vixels you'd want cheap and there's plenty of wood there cut and everything handy. End of section 33. Section 34 of Rudder Grange. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Rudder Grange by Frank R. Stockton, Chapter 17 in which we take a vacation and look for David Dutton, Part 2. We looked at each other. We agreed. Here was a chance for a rare good time. It might be better perhaps than anything we had expected. The bargain was struck. Mrs. Carson, who seemed vested with all the necessary powers of attorney, appeared to be perfectly satisfied with our trustworthiness and when I paid on the spot the small sum she thought proper for two weeks rent she evidently considered she had done a very good thing for Dave Dutton and herself. I'll just put some bread and eggs and coffee and pork and things in a basket and I'll have them took up for you with your trunk and I'll go with you and take some milk. Here, Danny, she cried and directly her husband a long, thin, sunburnt, sandy-headed man appeared and to him she told in a few words our story and ordered him to hitch up the cart and be ready to take our trunk and the basket up to Dutton's old place. When all was ready we walked up the hill followed by Danny and the cart. We found the house a large, low, old-fashioned farmhouse standing near the road with a long piazza in front and a magnificent view of the mountaintops in rear. Within the lower rooms were large and low with quite a good deal of furniture in them. There was no earthly reason why we should not be perfectly jolly and comfortable here. The more we saw the more delighted we were at the odd experience we were about to have. Mrs. Carson busied herself in getting things in order for our supper in general accommodation. She made Danny carry our trunk to a bedroom in the second story and then set him to work building a fire in a great fireplace with a crane for the kettle. When she had done all she could it was nearly dark and after lighting a couple of candles she left us to go home and get supper for her own family. As she and Danny were about to depart in the cart she ran back to ask us if we would like to borrow a dog. There ain't nothing to be a fear of, she said, for nobody hardly ever takes the trouble to lock their doors in this part but being city folks I thought you might feel better if you had a dog. We made haste to tell her that we were not city folks but declined to the dog. Indeed you family remarked that she would be much more afraid of a strange dog than of robbers. After supper which we enjoyed as much as any meal we ever ate in our lives we each took a candle and after arranging our bedroom for the night we explored the old house. There were lots of curious things everywhere things that were apparently so old timey as my wife remarked that David Dutton did not care to take them with him to his new farm and so he left them for his son who probably cared for them even less than his father did. There was a garret extending over the whole house and filled with old spinning wheels and strings of onions and all sorts of antiquated bric-a-brac which was so fascinating to me that I could scarcely tear myself away from it but Euphemia who was dreadfully afraid that I would set the whole place on fire at length prevailed on me to come down. We slept soundly that night in what was probably the best bedroom of the house and awoke with a feeling that we were about to enter on a period of some uncommon kind of jollity which we found to be true when we went down to get breakfast. I made the fire, Euphemia made the coffee and Mrs. Carson came with cream and some fresh eggs. The good woman was in high spirits. She was evidently pleased at the idea of having neighbors temporary though they were and it had probably been a long time since she had had such a chance of selling milk, eggs and sundries. It was almost the same as opening a country store. We bought groceries and everything of her. We had a glorious time that day. We were just starting out for a mountain stroll when our stage driver came along on his down trip. Hello, he called out. Want to go back this morning? Not a bit of it, I cried. We won't go back for a couple of weeks. We've settled here for the present. The man smiled. He didn't seem to understand it exactly but he was evidently glad to see us so well satisfied. If he had had time to stop and have the matter explained to him he would probably have been better satisfied but as it was he waved his whip to us and drove on. He was a good fellow. We strolled all day having locked up the house and taken our lunch with us and when we came back it seemed really like coming home. Mrs. Carson with whom we had left the key had brought the milk and was making the fire. This woman was too kind. We determined to try and repay her in some way. After a splendid supper we went to bed happy. The next day was a repetition of this one but the day after it rained. So we determined to enjoy the old tavern and we rummaged about everywhere. I visited the garret again and we went to the old barn with its mows half full of hay and had rare times climbing about there. We were delighted that it happened to rain. In a wood shed near the house I saw a big square board with letters on it. I examined the board and found it was a sign, a hanging sign and on it was painted letters that were yet quite plain. Farmers and Mechanics Hotel. I called to Euphemia and told her that I had found the old tavern sign. She came to look at it and I pulled it out. Soldiers and sailors, she exclaimed, that's funny. I looked over on her side of the sign and sure enough there was the inscription Soldiers and Sailors House. They must have bought this comprehensive sign in some town, I said. Such a name would never have been chosen for a country tavern like this but I wish they hadn't taken it down. The house would look more like what it ought with its sign hanging before it. Well then, said Euphemia, let's put it up. I agreed instantly to this proposition and we went to look for a ladder. We found one in the wagon house and carried it out to the sign post in the front of the house. It was raining gently during these performances but we had on our old clothes and were so much interested in our work that we did not care for a little rain. I carried the sign to the post and then at the imminent risk of breaking my neck I hung it on its appropriate hooks on the transverse beam of the sign post. Now our tavern was really what it pretended to be. We gazed on the sign with admiration and content. Do you think we had better keep it up all the time? I asked of my wife. Certainly, said she, it's part of the house. The place isn't complete without it. But suppose someone should come along and want to be entertained. But no one will and if people do come I'll take care of the Soldiers and Sailors if you will attend to the farmers and mechanics. I consented to this and we went indoors to prepare dinner. End of section 34. Section 35 of Rudder Grange. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Rudder Grange by Frank R Stockton. Chapter 18, Our Tavern. The next day was clear again and we rambled in the woods until the sun was nearly down and so we're 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 newcomer 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 a 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 tonight? 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, said she. 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 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's 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 was 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's 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 a 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 costs 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 to various matters, while my wife got out her traveling stationary 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 proportion 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 10 or 15 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 it over with him. The bill of which I have a copy read as follows, July 12th, 1870, artist, to the S&S Hotel and F&M House, to one-third supper, July 11th, which supper consisted of one-fourteenth pound coffee at 35 cents, two cents, one-fourteenth pound sugar at 14 cents, one cent, one-sixth quart milk at six cents, one cent, one half loaf of bread at six cents, three cents, one-eighth pound butter at 25 cents, three and one-eighth cents, one half pound bacon at 25 cents, 12 and a half cents, one-sixteenth pack potatoes at 60 cents per bushel, 15 sixteenths, one half pint hominy at six cents, three cents, 27 and one-sixteenth cents, one-third of total, nine and one-forty-eighth cents, to one-third breakfast, July 12th, same as above with the exception of eggs instead of bacon and with hominy omitted, 24 and one-sixth cents, one-third total, eight and one-forty-eighth cents, to rent of one room and furniture for one night in furnished house of 15 rooms at six dollars per week for whole house, five cents, three-eighths, amount due, 22 and 17, 24th cents. 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 gain say 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, receded 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 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 front 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 afterwards. 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 to sign up for, then? Rured the driver, getting red in the face. That so cried two or three of the men from the top of the stage. If it ain't a tavern, what's that sign doing 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 meal-pond. He gathered up his reins and turned a sinister look on me. I'll be even with you yet," 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 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 behind hand 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, and he'd a better state at Lowry's, for he had to wait a good sight longer after all as it turned out. But he's dreadful mad at you and says he'll bring you farmers and sailors and soldiers and mechanics if that's what you want. I suspect he'll do his best to get a load of them particular people and drop them at your door. I'd take down that sign if I was you. Not that me and Danny minds, for we're glad to get a stage to feed, and if you have any single man that wants lodging, we've fixed up a room and can 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 you're particular about the people you take in, are you, said he, smiling. That's all right, but you 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 release 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 going to get you a whole stage load to stay all night, but that one'll do, yeah, I reckon. Ha-ha! And off he went, probably fearing that I would throw his passenger up on top of the stage again. End of section 35. Section 36 of Rudder Grange. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Rudder Grange by Frank R Stockton. Chapter 18, Our Tavern, Part 2. The newcomer 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 release. 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 release. 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 17 years of age, circumstances compelled me to take charge of a farm in New Hampshire, and I kept up that farm until I was 25. During this time I built several barns, wagon houses and edifices of the sword on my place, and becoming an expert in this branch of mechanical art, I was much sought after by 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 a landsman. I remained on this vessel for nearly a year, but it did not suit me. I was often sick and I 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 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 woodcut 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 $3.75. 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 encyclopedia. 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 tonight and start out in the morning to work up the neighborhood. If you would like this book, and I'm sure you only have to look at it to do that, you can deduct the money of my bill from the subscription price, and what did you say you charged for this book? Ask you, Femmea, stepping forward and picking up the volume. $3.75 is a 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 charged 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, Eufemio 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 omelet. 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 had hoped to have your good company. But if this plan suits you, it suits me, and he drew up a chair. Stop, said Eufemio, 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 do 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 nearby. No, I said, but there is a farmhouse 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 wheel-right 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-makers and bookbinders hotel, and on the other side a pulse-rers and dentist's house. Now then I said I don't believe any of these 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, a poster-ers and dentists. Do not think any 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 I 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 Watts 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 and tell you, said he, that if you don't look out, Bill will get your into trouble. He's bound to get the best of you, and I heard this morning at Lowry's, that he's going to bring the county clerk up here tomorrow to see about your license for keeping a hotel. He says you keep changing your signs, but that don't differ to him, for he can prove you've kept travelers overnight. And if you haven't got no license, he'll make the county clerk come down on you heavy, I'm sure of that. For I know, Bill. And so I thought I'd stop and tell you. I thanked him and admitted that this was a rather serious view of the case. Euphemia pondered a moment. Then she said, I don't see why we should stay here any longer. It's going to rain again, and our vacation is up tomorrow anyway. Could you wait a little while while we pack up? She said to the driver. Oh yes, he replied. I can wait as well as not. I've only got one passenger, and he's on top a hold in the horses. He ain't in any hurry, I know, and I'm ahead of time. In less than twenty minutes we had packed our trunk, locked up the house, and we 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. End of section 36. Section 37 of Rudder Grange. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Rudder Grange by Frank R. Stockton. Chapter 19, The Baby at Rudder Grange, Part One. For some reason, not altogether understood by me, there seemed to be a continued series of new developments at our home. I had supposed, when the events spoken of in the last chapter had settled down to their proper places in our little history, that our life would flow on in an even, commonplace way, with few or no incidents worthy of being recorded. But this did not prove to be the case. After a time the uniformity and quiet of our existence was considerably disturbed. This disturbance was caused by a baby, not a rude, imperious baby, but a child who was generally of a quiet and orderly turn of mind. But it disarranged all our plans, all our habits, all the ordinary disposition of things. It was in the summertime, during my vacation, that it began to exert its full influence upon us. A more unfortunate season could not have been selected. At first I may say that it did not exert its full influence upon me. I was away during the day, and in the evening its influence was not exerted to any great extent upon anybody. As I have said, its habits were exceedingly orderly. But during my vacation the things came to pass which have made this chapter necessary. I did not intend taking a trip. As in a former vacation I proposed staying at home and enjoying those delights of the country which my business in town did not allow me to enjoy in the working weeks and months of the year. I had no intention of camping out or of doing anything of that kind. But many were the trips, rides, and excursions I had planned. I found, however, that if I enjoyed myself in this wise I must do it, for the most part, alone. It was not that Euphemia could not go with me. There was really nothing to prevent it. It was simply that she had lost for the time her interest in everything except that baby. She wanted me to be happy, to amuse myself, to take exercise, to do whatever I thought was pleasant. But she herself was so much engrossed with the child that she was often ignorant of what I intended to do or had done. She thought she was listening to what I said to her, but in reality she was occupied, mind and body with the baby, or listening for some sound which should indicate that she ought to go and be occupied with it. I would often say to her, Why can't you let Pomona attend to it? You surely need not give up your whole time and your whole mind to the child. But she would always answer that Pomona had a great many things to do and that she couldn't, at all times, attend to the baby. Suppose, for instance, that she should be at the barn. I once suggested that a nurse should be procured, but at this she laughed. There is very little to do, she said, and I really like to do it. Yes, I said, but you spend so much of your time in thinking how glad you will be to do that little that when it is all done you can't give me any attention at all. Now you have no cause to say that, she exclaimed. You know very well, there, in a way she ran. It had just begun to cry. Naturally I was getting tired of this. I never could begin a sentence and feel sure that I would be allowed to finish it. Nothing was important enough to delay attention to an infantile whimper. Jonas, too, was in a great state of unrest. He was obliged to wear his good clothes a great part of the time, for he was continually going on errands to the village, and these errands were so important that they took precedence of everything else. It gave me a melancholy sort of pleasure, sometimes, to do Jonas's work when he was thus sent away. I asked him one day how he liked it all. Well, said he reflectively, I can't say as I understand it exactly. It does seem queer to me that such a little thing should take up pretty nigh all the time of three people. I suppose after a while, this he said with a grave smile, that you may be wanting to turn in and help. I did not make any answer to this, for Jonas was at that moment summoned to the house, but it gave me an idea. In fact, it gave me two ideas. The first was that Jonas's remark was not entirely respectful. He was my hired man, but he was a very respectable man, and an American man, and therefore might sometimes be expected to say things with a foreigner, not known to be respectable, would not think of saying if he wished to keep his place. The fact that Jonas had always been very careful to treat me with much civility caused this remark to make more impression on me. I felt that he had in a measure reason for it. The other idea was one which grew and developed in my mind until I had afterward formed a plan upon it. I determined, however, before I carried out my plan, to again try to reason with euphemia. If it was our own baby, I said, or even the child of one of us, by a former marriage it would be a different thing, but to give yourself up so entirely to Pomona's baby seems to me unreasonable. Indeed, I never heard of any case exactly like it. It is reversing all the usages of society for the mistress to take care of the servant's baby. The usages of society are not worth much, sometimes, said euphemia, and you must remember that Pomona is a very different kind of a person from an ordinary servant. She is much more like a member of the family. I can't exactly explain what kind of a member, but I understand it myself. She has been very much improved since she has been married, and you know yourself how quiet and nice she is, and as for the baby, it's just as good and pretty as any baby, and it may grow up to be better than any of us. Some of our presidents have sprung from lowly parents, but this one is a girl, I said. Well, then, replied euphemia, she may be a president's wife. Another thing I remarked, I don't believe Jonas and Pomona like you're keeping their baby so much to yourself. Nonsense, said euphemia. A girl in Pomona's position couldn't help being glad to have a lady take an interest in her baby, and help bring it up. And as for Jonas, he would be a cool man if he wasn't pleased and grateful to have his wife relieved with so much trouble. Pomona, is that you? You can bring it here now if you want to get at your clear starching. I don't believe that Pomona hankered after clear starching, but she brought the baby, and I went away. I could not see any hope ahead. Of course in time it would grow up, but then it couldn't grow up during my vacation. Then it was that I determined to carry out my plan. I went to the stable and harnessed the horse to the little carriage. Jonas was not there, and I had fallen out of the habit of calling him. I drove slowly through the yard and out of the gate. No one called to me or asked where I was going. How different this was from the old times. Then some would when not have failed to know where I was going, and in all probability she would have gone with me. But now I drove away quietly and undisturbed. About three miles from our house was a settlement known as New Dublin. It was a cluster of poor and doleful houses, inhabited entirely by Irish people, whose dirt and poverty seemed to make them very contented and happy. The men were generally away at their work during the day, but there was never any difficulty in finding someone at home, no matter at what house one called. I was acquainted with one of the matrons of this locality, a Mrs. Duffy, who had occasionally undertaken some odd jobs at our house, and to her I made a visit. She was glad to see me and wiped off a chair for me. Mrs. Duffy, said I, I want to rent a baby. At first the good woman could not understand me, but when I made it plain to her that I wished for a short time to obtain the exclusive use and control of a baby, for which I was willing to pay a liberal rental, she burst into long and violent laughter. It seemed to her like a person coming into the country to purchase weeds. Weeds and children were so abundant in New Dublin. But she gradually began to see that I was an earnest, and as she knew I was a trusty person, and somewhat noted for the care I took of my livestock, she was perfectly willing to accommodate me, but feared she had nothing on hand of the age I desired. My child, they're all going about, she said. You can see a poil of them out yawn in the road, and there's more of them in the fence. But she not have a fear about getting one. There's facts of them in the place. I'll just run over to Mrs. Hogan's widget. Mrs. got sixteen or seventeen, mostly small, for Hogan bought four or five widows with him married her, and she'll be glad to rent one of them. So, throwing her apron over her head, she accompanied me to Mrs. Hogan's. That lady was washing, but she cheerfully stopped her work while Mrs. Duffy took her to one side and explained my errand. Mrs. Hogan did not appear to be able to understand why I wanted a baby, especially for so limited a period, but probably concluded that if I would take good care of it and would pay well for it, the matter was my own affair, for she soon came and said that if I wanted a baby I'd come to the right place. Then she began to consider what one she would let me have. I insisted on a young one. There was already a little baby at our house, and the folks would know how to manage it. Oh, you want it for company for the other one, is that it? said Mrs. Hogan, a new light breaking in upon her. And that's a good plan, sure. It must be dreadful only in a little house with only one baby. Now there's one. Polly, would she do? Why, she can run, I said. I don't want one that can run. Oh, dear, said Mrs. Hogan with a sigh. They all begin to run very early. Now Polly isn't old at all, at all. I can see that, I said, but I want one you can put in a cradle, one that will have to stay there when you put it in. It was plain that Mrs. Hogan's present stock did not contain exactly what I wanted, and directly Mrs. Duffy exclaimed, There's Mary McCann, and right across the way. Mrs. Hogan said, Yes, sure, and we all went over to a little house opposite. Now, then, said Mrs. Duffy, entering the house and proudly drawing a small cover lid from a little box bed in a corner. What do you think of that? Why, there are two of them, I exclaimed. To be sure, said Mrs. Duffy, there are tweens, and there's always two of them when they're tweens, and they're young enough. Yes, said I doubtfully, but I couldn't take them both. Do you think their mother would rent one of them? The women shook their heads. You see, sir, said Mrs. Hogan, Mary McCann isn't here, being gone out to a wash, but she only has four or five children, and she ain't much use to them yet, and I can speak for her that she'd never separate a pair of tweens. When she gets a dozen herself, and Mary's a widow gentlemen with a lot of his own, she'll be glad enough to be letting you have your pick, to take one of them for company to your own baby at five dollars a week. Mind that! I visited several houses after this, still in company with Mrs. Hogan and Mrs. Duffy, and finally secured a youngish infant who having been left motherless had become what Mrs. Duffy called a bottle baby, and was in charge of a neighboring aunt. It seems strange that this child, so eminently adapted to purposes of rental, was not offered to me at first, but I suppose the Irish ladies, who had the matter in charge, wanted to benefit themselves, or some of their near-friends, before giving the general public of New Dublin a chance. The child suited me very well, and I agreed to take it for as many days as I might happen to want it, but to pay by the week in advance. It was a boy, with a suggestion of orange-red bloom all over its head, and what looked, to me, like freckles on its cheeks, while its little nose turned up even more than those of babies generally turned, above a very long upper lip. His eyes were blue and twinkling, and he had the very mouth for a little poep, as Mrs. Hogan admirably remarked. He was hastily prepared for his trip, and when I had arranged the necessary business matters with his aunt, and had assured her that she could come and see him whenever she liked, I got into the carriage, and having spread the lap-robe over my knees, the baby, carefully wrapped in a little shawl, was laid in my lap. Then his bottle, freshly filled, for he might need a drink on the way, was tucked between the cushions on the seat beside me, and taking the other lines in my left hand, while I steadied my charge with the other, I prepared to drive away. What's his name, I asked. It's Pat, said his aunt, after his dad, who's away in the mines. But she can call him anything you like, Mrs. Duffy remarked, for he don't answer to his name yet. Pat will do very well, I said, as I bade the good woman for well, and carefully guided the horse through the swarms of youngsters who had gathered around the carriage. End of Section 30.