“Nay, nay, you must not give way thus. It is very unlikely that one young as you are can have any real guilt upon his conscience.”
“Not yet, Father,” said I, with a shudder, – “not yet; but who can tell how it may be with me to-morrow or next day? What a different answer should I have to give your question then!”
“This is some fancy, – some trick of a warm and ill-regulated imagination, my son.”
“It is the language my heart pours from my lips,” said I, grasping his hand as if with irrepressible emotion. “I have a heavy crime here – here!” and I struck my breast violently; “and if it be as yet unaccomplished, the shadow of the guilt is on me already.”
“Sit still, my son, sit still, and listen to me,” said he, restraining me, as I was about to rise. “To whom can you reveal these mysterious terrors more fittingly than to me? Be candid; tell me what weighs upon your heart. It may be that a mere word of mine can give you courage and calm.”
“That cannot be,” said I, firmly; “you speak in kindness, but you know not what you promise. I am under a vow, Father, – I am under a vow.”
“Well, my son, there are many vows meritorious. There are vows of penitence, and of chastity, and of abstinence – ”
“Mine is none of these,” said I, with a low, guttural utterance, as if I was biting each word I spoke.
“Vows of chastisement – ”
“Not that, not that either!” cried I; then, dropping my voice to a low whisper, I said, “I have sworn a solemn oath to commit a murder! I know the full guilt of what is before me, I see all the consequences, both here and hereafter: but my word is pledged, – I have taken the oath with every ceremony that can give it solemnity; and – I ‘ll go through with it!”
“There is a mystery in all this,” said the Padre; “you must recount the circumstances of this singular pledge, ere I can give you either comfort or counsel.”
“I look for neither, – I hope for neither!” said I, wringing my hands; “but you shall hear my story, – you are the last to whom I can ever reveal it! I arrived at New Orleans about a fortnight ago, on a yacht cruise with a friend of mine, of whose name, at least, you may have heard, – Sir Dudley Broughton.”
“The owner of a handsome schooner, the ‘Firefly,’” said the Padre, with an animation on the subject not quite in keeping with his costume.
“The same; you are, then, acquainted with him?”
“Oh, no; I was accidentally standing on the wharf when his yacht came up the river at New Orleans.”
“You did n’t remark a young man on the poop in a foraging-cap, with a gold band round it?”
“I cannot say I did.”
“He carried a key-bugle in his hand.”
“I did not perceive him.”
“That was me; how different was I then! Well, well, I ‘ll hasten on. We arrived at New Orleans, not quite determined whither next we should bend our steps; and hearing by mere accident of this Texan expedition, we took it into our heads we would join it. On inquiring about the matter, we found that a lottery was in progress, the prizes of which were various portions of equipment, horses, mules, baggage, negroes, and so on. For this – just out of caprice – we took several tickets; but as, from one cause or other, the drawing was delayed, we lingered on, going each day to the office, and there making acquaintance with a number of fellows interested in the expedition, but whose manner and style, I need scarcely say, were not good recommendations to intimacy. Broughton, however, always liked that kind of thing; low company, with him, had always the charm of an amusement that he could resign whenever he fancied. Now, as he grew more intimate with these fellows, he obtained admission into a kind of club they held in an obscure part of the town, and thither we generally repaired every evening, when too late for any more correct society. They were all, or at least they affected to be, interested in Texan expeditions; and the conversation never took any other turn than what concerned these objects; and if at first our Old World notions were shocked at their indifference to life, – the reckless disregard of honor and good faith they evinced, – we came by degrees to feel that the moral code of the Prairies permitted many things which were never sanctioned in more cultivated latitudes.
“Broughton entered into all this with a most extraordinary interest. Nothing seemed too wild, too abandoned, and too outrageous for his notions; and, I shame to say it, he soon made me a convert to his opinions. His constant speech was, ‘Be as virtuous as you please, my dear fellow, among ladies and gentlemen; but pray fight Choctaws, Pawnees, and half-breeds with their own weapons, which are either a trick or a tomahawk.’ I never liked the theory; but partly from daily iteration, partly from a yielding pliancy of disposition, and in great measure from being shamed into it, I gave way, and joined him in all the pledges he gave, to go through with anything the expedition exacted. I must be brief; that light yonder is on Fork Island, where we stop to take in wood; and ere we reach it, I must make up my mind to one course or other.
“As the time for the starting of the expedition drew nigh, the various plans and schemes became the theme of nightly discussion; and we heard of nothing but guides and trails, where grass was to be found for the cattle, and where water could be had, with significant hints about certain places and people who were known or believed to be inimical to these excursions. Thus, on the map, were marked certain villages which might be put under contribution, and certain log-houses which should be made to pay a heavy impost: here, it was a convent to be mulcted; and there, a store or a mill to be burned! In fact, the expedition seemed to have as many vengeances to fulfil as hopes of gain to gratify; for each had a friend who was maltreated, or robbed, or murdered, and whose fate or fortunes required an expiation. – But I weary you, Padre, with all this?”
“Not at all, my son; I recognize perfectly the accuracy of your account. I have heard a good deal about these people.”
“There was one individual, however, so universally detested that you would suppose he must have been a kind of devil incarnate to have incurred such general hate. Every one had a grudge against him, and, in fact, there was a kind of struggle who should be allotted to wreak on him the common vengeance of the company. It was at last decided that his fate should be lotteried, and that whoever won the first prize – this mare of which you may have heard – should also win the right to finish this wretched man. I gained this infamous distinction; and here am I, on my way to claim my prize and commit a murder! Ay, I may as well employ the true word, – it is nothing less than a murder! I have not even the poor excuse of revenge. I cannot pretend that he ever injured me, – nay, I have not even seen him; I never heard of his name till two days ago; nor, even now, could I succeed in finding him out, if I were not provided with certain clews at Houston, and certain guides by whose aid I am to track him. My oath is pledged: I swore it solemnly that, if the lot fell upon me, I ‘d do the deed, and do it I will; yet, I am equally resolved never to survive it.” – Here I produced my revolver. – “If this barrel be for the unlucky Chico, this other is for myself!”
“What name did you say?” cried he, with a faltering voice, while his hand, as he laid it on my arm, shook like ague.
“Chico, the wretch is called,” I said, fixing a cap on my pistol.
“And why call him a wretch, my son? Has he ever injured you? How do you know that he is not some poor, kindly hearted creature, the father of five children, one of them a baby, perhaps? How can you tell the difficulties by which he gains his living, and the hazard to which he exposes his life in doing so? And is it to injure such a man you will go down to your own grave an assassin?”
“I’ll do it,” said I, doggedly; “I’ll keep my oath.”
“Such an oath never bound any man; it is a snare of Satan.”
“So it may, – I ‘ll keep it,” said I, beating the deck with my foot, with the dogged determination of one not to be turned from his purpose.
“Kill in cold blood a man you never saw before?”
“Just so; I am not going to think of him, when I set so little store by myself; I only wish the fellow were here now, and I’d show you whether I’d falter or not.”
“Poor Chico, – I could weep for him!” said he, blubbering.
“Keep your pity for me,” said I, – “I, that am bound by this terrible oath, and must either stamp myself a coward or a murderer. As for Chico, I believe a more worthless wretch never existed, – a poor, mean-spirited creature, whose trade is to be a spy, and by whose cursed machinations many a fine fellow has been ruined.”
“You are all wrong, sir,” said the Padre, warmly. “I know the man myself; he is an amiable, kind-hearted being, that never harmed any one.”
“He’s the fellow to die, then!” said I, roughly.
“He has a small family, unprovided for.”
“They have the inheritance of his virtues,” said I, scoffingly.
“Can you have the heart for such cruelty?” cried he, almost sobbing.
“Come with me when I land at Houston, and see, – that’s all!” said I. “A few minutes back, I was hesitating whether I would not land at this island and abandon my purpose. The weakness is now over; I feel a kind of fiendish spirit growing up within me already; I cannot think of the fellow without a sense of loathing and hatred!”
“Lie down, my son, and compose yourself for an hour or two; sleep and rest will calm your agitated brain, and you will then listen to my counsels with profit: your present excitement overmasters your reason, and my words would be of no effect.”
“I know it – I feel it here, across my temples – that it is a kind of paroxysm; but I never close my eyes that I do not fancy I see the fellow, now in one shape, now in another, for he can assume a thousand disguises; while in my ears his accursed name is always ringing.”
“I pity you from my heart!” said the other; and certainly a sadder expression I never saw in any human face before. “But go down below; go down, I beseech you.”
“I have only taken a deck-passage,” said I, doggedly; “I determined that I would see no one, speak to no one.”
“Nor need you, my son,” said he, coaxingly. “They are all sound asleep in the after-cabin; take my berth, – I do not want it; I am always better upon deck.”
“If you will have it so,” said I, yielding; “but, for your life, not a word of what I have said to you! Do not deceive yourself by any false idea of humanity. Were you to shoot me where I stand, you could not save him, —his doom is spoken. If I fail, there is Broughton, and, after him, a score of others, sworn to do the work.”
“Lie down and calm yourself,” said he, leading me to the companion-ladder; “we must speak of this to-morrow.”
I squeezed his hand, and slowly descended to the cabin. At first the thought occurred to me that he might give the alarm and have me seized; but then this would expose him so palpably to my recognition, should I chance to escape, it was unlikely he would do so. The stillness on deck showed me I was correct in this latter estimate, and so I turned into his comfortable berth, and, while I drew the counterpane over me, thought I had made a capital exchange for the hard ribs of the “long-boat.”
If my stratagem had succeeded in impressing my friend Chico with a most lively fear, it did not leave my own mind at perfect tranquillity. I knew that he must be a fellow of infinite resources, and that the game between us, in all likelihood, had but commenced. In circumstances of difficulty, I have constantly made a practice of changing places with my antagonist, fancying myself in his position, and asking myself how I should act? This taking the “adversary’s hand” is admirable practice in the game of life; it suggests an immense range of combinations, and improves one’s play prodigiously.
I now began to myself a little exercise after this fashion: but what between previous fatigue, the warmth of the cabin, and the luxury of a real bed, Chico and I changed places so often, in my brain, that confusion ensued, then came weariness, and, at last sound sleep, – so sound that I was only awoke by the steward as he popped his greasy head into the berth and said, “I say, master, here we are, standing close in: had n’t you better get up?”
I did as he advised; and, as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, said, “Where’s the Padre, steward? – what’s become of him?”
“He was took ill last night, and stopped at Fork Island; he ‘ll go back with us to-morrow to Galveston.”
“You know him, I suppose?” said I, looking at the fellow with a shrewd intelligence that he knew how to construe.
“Well,” cried he, scratching his head, “well, mayhap I do guess a bit who he is.”
“So do I, steward; and when we meet again, he ‘ll know me.” said I, with a look of such imposing sternness that I saw the fellow was recording it. “You may tell him so, steward. I ‘ll wait for him here till I catch him; and if he escape both myself and my friend Broughton, – Broughton; don’t forget the name, – he is deeper than I give him credit for.”
As I was about to leave the cabin, I caught sight of the corner of a red handkerchief peeping out beneath the pillow of the berth. I drew it forth, and found it was Chico’s travelling kit, which he preferred abandoning to the risk of again meeting me. It contained a small black skull-cap such as priests wear, a Romish missal, a string of beads, with a few common articles of dress, and eight dollars in silver.
“The spoils of victory,” quoth I, embodying the whole in my own bundle: “the enemy’s baggage and the military chest captured.”
“Which is the White Hart?” said I, as I came on deck, now crowded with shore folk, porters, and waiters.
“This way, sir, – follow me,” said a smart fellow in a waiter’s dress; and I handed him my bundle and stepped on shore.
CHAPTER XX. THE LOG-HUT AT BRAZOS
I was all impatience to see my prize: and scarcely had I entered the inn than I passed out into the stable-yard, now crowded with many of those equestrian-looking figures I had seen on board the steamer.
“Butcher’s mare here still, Georgie?” said a huge fellow, with high boots of red-brown leather, and a sheepskin capote belted round him with a red sash.
“Yes, Master Seth, there she stands. You’ll be getting a bargain of her, one of these days.”
“If I had her up at Austin next week for the fair, she ‘d bring a few hundred dollars.”
“You ‘d never think of selling a beast like that at Austin, Seth?” said a bystander.
“Why not? Do you fancy I ‘ll bring her into the States, and see her claimed in every town of the Union? Why, man, she’s been stolen once a month, that mare has, since she was a two-year-old. I knew an old general up in the Maine frontier had her last year; and he rid her away from a ‘stump meeting’ in Vermont, in change of his own mule, – blind, – and never know’d the differ till he was nigh home. I sold her twice, myself, in one week. Scott of Muckleburg stained her off fore-leg white, and sold her back, as a new one, to the fellow who returned her for lameness; and she can pretend lameness, she can.”
A roar of very unbelieving laughter followed this sally, but Seth resumed, —
“Well, I’ll lay fifty dollars with any gentleman here that she comes out of the stable dead lame, or all sound, just as I bid her.”
Nobody seemed to fancy this wager; and Seth, satisfied with having established his veracity, went on, —
“You ‘ve but to touch the coronet of the off-foot with the point of your bowie, – a mere touch, not draw blood, – and see if she won’t come out limping on the toe, all as one as a dead breakdown in the coffin joint; rub her a bit then with your hand, – she ‘s all right again! It was Wrecksley of Ohio taught her the trick; he used to lame her that way, and buy her in, wherever he found her.”
“Who’s won her this time?” cried another.
“I have, gentlemen,” said I, slapping my boot with my cane, and affecting a very knowing air as I spoke. The company turned round and surveyed me some seconds in deep silence.
“You an’t a-goin’ to ride her, young ‘un?” said one, half contemptuously.
“No, he an’t; the gent’s willin’ to sell her,” chimed in another.
“He’s goin’ to ax me three hundred dollars,” said a third, “an’ I an’t a-goin’ to gi’ him no more than two hundred.”
“You are all wrong, every man of you,” said Seth. “He’s bringing her to England, a present for the Queen, for her own ridin’.”
“And I beg to say, gentlemen, that none of you have hit upon the right track yet; nor do I think it necessary to correct you more fully. But as you appear to take an interest in my concerns, I may mention that I shall want a hack for my servant’s riding, – a short-legged, square-jointed thing, clever to go, and a good feeder, not much above fourteen hands in height, or four hundred dollars in price. If you chance upon this – ”
“I know your mark.”
“My roan, with the wall-eye. You don’t mind a walleye?”
“No, no! my black pony mare’s the thing the gent’s a lookin’ for.”
“I say it’s nothing like it,” broke in Seth. “He’s a-wantin’ a half-bred mustang, with a down-east cross, – a critter to go through fire and water; liftin’ the fore-legs like a high-pressure piston, and with a jerk of the ‘stifle’ like the recoil of a brass eight-pounder. An’t I near the mark?”
“Not very wide of it,” said I, nodding encouragingly.
“She ‘s at Austin now. You an’t a-goin’ there?”
“Yes,” said I; “I shall be in Austin next week.”
“Well, never you make a deal till you see my black pony,” cried one.
“Nor the roan cob,” shouted another.
“He ‘d better see ‘em ‘fore he sees Split-the-wind, then, or he ‘d not look at ‘em arter,” said Seth. “You ‘ve only to ask for Seth Chiseller, and they ‘ll look me up.”
“You an’t a-goin’ to let us see Butcher’s mare afore we go?” said one to the ostler.
“I an’t, because I have n’t got the key. She’s a double-locked, and the cap ‘n never gives it to no one, but comes a-feedin’ time himself, to give her corn.”
After a few muttered remarks on this caution, the horse-dealers sauntered out of the yard, leaving me musing over what I had heard, and wondering if this excessive care of the landlord boded any suspicion regarding the winner of the prize.
“Jist draw that bolt across the gate, there, will ye,” said the ostler, while he produced a huge key from his pocket. “I know ‘em well, them gents. A man must have fourteen eyes in his head, and have ‘em back and front too, that shows ‘em a horse beast! Darn me coarse! if they can’t gi’ ‘un a blood spavin in a squirt of tobacco! Let’s see your ticket, young master, and I ‘ll show you Charcoal, – . that’s her name.”
“Here it is,” said I, “signed by the agent at Galveston, all right and regular.”
“The cap’n must see to that. I only want to know that ye have the number. Yes, that ‘s it; now stand a bit on one side. Ye ‘ll see her when she comes out.”
He entered the stable as he spoke, and soon re-appeared, leading a tall mare, fully sixteen hands high, and black as jet; a single white star on her forehead, and a dash of white across the tail, being the only marks on her. She was bursting with condition, and both in symmetry and action a splendid creature.
“An’t she a streak of lightnin’, and no mistake?” said he, gazing on her with rapture. “An’t she glibber to move nor a wag of a comet’s tail, when he ‘s taking a lark round the moon? There’s hocks! there’s pasterns! Show me a gal with ankles like ‘em, and look at her, here! An’t she a-made for sittin’ on?”
I entered into all his raptures. She was faultless in every point, – save, perhaps, that in looking at you she would throw her eye backwards, and show a little bit too much of the white. I remarked this to the ostler.
“The only fault she has,” said he, shaking his head; “she mistrusts a body always, and so she’s eternally a lookin’ back, and a gatherin’ up her quarters, and a holdin’ of her tail tight in; but for that, she’s a downright regular beauty, and for stride and bottom there ain’t her equal nowhere.”
“Her late master was unlucky, I’ve heard,” said I, insinuatingly.
“He was so far unlucky that he could n’t sit his beast over a torrent and a down leap. He would hold her in, and she won’t bear it at a spring, and so she flung him before she took the leap; and when she lit, ‘t other side, with her head high and her hind legs under her, he was a sittin’ with his ‘n under his arm, and his neck bruck, – that was the way o’ it. See now, master, if ever ye do want a great streak out of her, leave the head free a bit, press her wi’ your calves, and give a right down reg’lar halloo, – ha! like a Mexican chap; then she’ll do it!”
The ostler found me a willing listener, either when dwelling on the animal’s perfections, or suggesting hints for her future management; and when at last both these themes were tolerably exhausted, he proceeded to show me the horse-gear of saddle, and bridle, and halter, and holsters, all handsomely finished in Mexican taste, and studded with brass nails in various gay devices. At last he produced the rifle, – a regular Kentucky one, of Colt’s making, – and what he considered a still greater prize, a bell-mouthed thing half horse-pistol, half blunderbuss, which he called “a almighty fine ‘Harper’s Ferry tool,’ that would throw thirty bullets through an oak panel two inches thick.”
It was evident that he looked upon the whole equipment as worthy of the most exalted possession, and he gazed on me as one whose lot was indeed to be envied.
“Seth and the others leave this to-morrow a’ternoon,” said he; “but if ye be a-goin’ to Austin, where the ‘Spedeshin’ puts up, take my advice, and get away before ‘em. You ‘ve a fine road, – no trouble to find the way; your beast will carry you forty, fifty, if you want it, sixty, miles between sunrise and ‘down;’ and you ‘ll be snug over the journey before they reach Killian’s Mill, the half-way. An’ if ye want to know why I say so, it’s just because that’s too good a beast to tempt a tramper wi’, and them’s all trampers!”
I gave the ostler a dollar for all his information and civility, and re-entered the inn to have my supper. The cap’n had already returned home, and after verifying my ticket, took my receipt for the mare, which I gave in all form, writing my name, “Con Cregan,” as though it were to a check for a thousand pounds.
I supped comfortably, and then walked out to the stable to see Charcoal. “Get her corn; you’ll see if she don’t, eat it in less than winkin’,” said the ostler; “and if she wor my beast, she’d never taste another feed till she had her nose in the manger at Croft’s Gulley.”
“And where is Croft’s Gulley?”
“It’s the bottoms after you pass the larch wood; the road dips a bit, and is heavy there, and it’s a good baitin’ place, just eighteen miles from here.”
“On the road to Austin?”
He nodded. “Ye see,” he said, “the moon’s a risin’; there’s no one out this time. Ye know what I said afore.”
“I’ll take the advice, then. Get the traps ready; I’ll pack the saddle-bags and set out.”
If any one had asked me why I was in such haste to reach Austin, my answer would have been, “To join the expedition;” and if interrogated, “With what object then?” I should have been utterly dumbfoundered. Little as I knew of its intentions, they must all have been above the range of my ability and means to participate in. True, I had a horse and a rifle; but there was the end of my worldly possessions, not to say that my title, even to these, admitted of litigation. A kind of vague notion possessed me that, once up with the expedition, I should find my place “somewhere,” – a very Irish idea of a responsible situation. I trusted to the “making myself generally useful” category for employment, and to a ready-wittedness never cramped nor restrained by the petty prejudices of a conscience.
The love of enterprise and adventure is conspicuous among the springs of action in Irish life, occasionally developing a Wellesley or a Captain Rock. Peninsular glories and predial outrage have just the same one origin, – a love of distinction, and a craving desire for the enjoyment of that most fascinating of all excitements, – whatever perils life.
Without this element, pleasure soon palls; without the cracked skulls and fractured “femurs,” fox-hunting would be mere galloping; a review might vie with a battle, if they fire blank cartridge in both! Who ‘d climb the Peter Bot, or cross the “petit mulets” of Mont Blanc, if it were not that a false step or a totter would send him down a thousand fathoms into the deep gorge below. This playing hide-and-seek with Death seems to have a great charm, and is very possibly the attraction some folks feel in playing invalid, and passing their lives amid black draughts and blue lotions!
I shrewdly suspect this luxury of tempting peril distinguishes man from the whole of the other animal creation; and if we were to examine it a little, we should see that it opens the way to many of his highest aspirings and most noble enterprises. Now, let not the gentle reader ask, “Does Mr. Cregan include horse-stealing in the list of these heroic darings?” Believe me, he does not; he rather regarded the act of appropriation in the present case in the light some noble lords did when voting away church property, – “a hard necessity, but preferable to being mulct oneself!” With many a thought like this, I rode out into the now silent town, and took my way towards Austin.
It is a strange thing to find oneself in a foreign land, thousands of miles from home, alone, and at night; the sense of isolation is almost overwhelming. So long as daylight lasts, the stir of the busy world and the business of life ward off these thoughts, – the novelty of the scene even combats them; but when night has closed in, and we see above us the stars that we have known in other lands, the self-same moon by whose light we wandered years ago, and then look around and mark the features of a new world, with objects which tell of another hemisphere; and then think that we are there alone, without tie or link to all around us, the sensation is thrilling in its intensity.
Every one of us – the least imaginative, even – will associate the strangeness of a foreign scene with something of that adventure of which he has read in his childhood; and we people vacancy, as we go, with images to suit the spot in our own country. The little pathway along the river side suggests the lovers’ walk at sunset as surely as the dark grove speaks of a woodman’s hut or a gypsy camp. But abroad, the scene evokes different dwellers: the Sierra suggests the brigand; the thick jungle, the jaguar or the rattlesnake; the heavy plash in the muddy river is the sound of the cayman; and the dull roar, like wind within a cavern, is the cry of the hungry lion. The presence around us of objects of which we have read long ago, but never expected to see, is highly exciting; it is like taking our place among the characters of a story, and investing us with an interest to ourselves, as the hero of some unwrought history.
This is the most fascinating of all castle-building, since we have a spot for an edifice, – a territory actually given to us.
I thought long upon this theme, and wondered to what I was yet destined, – whether to some condition of real eminence, or to move on among that vulgar herd who are the spectators of life, but never its conspicuous actors. I really believe this ignoble course was more distasteful to me from its flatness and insipidity than from its mere humility. It seemed so devoid of all interest, so tame and so monotonous, I would have chosen peril and vicissitude any day in preference. About midnight I reached Croft’s Gulley, where, after knocking for some time, a very sulky old negro admitted me into a stable while I baited my mare. The house was shut up for the night; and even had I sought refreshment, I could not have obtained it.
After a brief halt, I again resumed the road, which led through a close pine forest, and, however much praised, was anything but a good surface to travel on. Charcoal, however, made light of such difficulties, and picked her steps over holes and stumps with the caution of a trapper, detecting with a rare instinct the safe ground, and never venturing on spots where any difficulty or danger existed. I left her to herself, and it was curious to see that whenever a short interval of better footway intervened, she would, as if to “make play,” as the jockeys call it, strike out in a long swinging canter, “pulling up” to the walk the moment the uneven surface admonished her to caution.
As day broke, the road improved so that I was able to push along at a better pace, and by breakfast-time I found myself at a low, poor-looking log-house called “Brazos.” A picture representing Texas as a young child receiving some admirable counsel from a very matronly lady with thirteen stars on her petticoat, flaunted over the door, with the motto, “Filial Affection, and Candy Flip at all hours.”
A large, dull-eyed man, in a flannel pea-jacket and loose trousers to match, was seated in a rocking-chair at the door, smoking an enormous cigar, a little charmed circle of expectoration seeming to defend him from the assaults of the vulgar. A huge can of cider stood beside him, and a piece of Indian corn bread. He eyed me with the coolest unconcern as I dismounted, nor did he show the slightest sign of welcome.
“This is an inn, I believe, friend?” said I, saluting him.
“I take it to be a hotel,” said he, in a voice very like a yawn.
“And the landlord, where is he?”
“Where he ought to be, – at his own door, a smokin’ his own rearin’.”
“Is there an ostler to be found? I want to refresh my horse, and get some breakfast for myself too.”
“There an’t none.”
“No help?”
“Never was.”
“That’s singular, I fancy.”
“No, it an’t.”
“Why, what do travellers do with their cattle, then?”
“There bean’t none.”
“No cattle?”
“No travellers.”
“No travellers! and this the high road between two considerable towns!”