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Stockton, Frank Richard, 1834-1902

"Rudder Grange"

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 a part of the house. The place isn't
complete without it."
"But suppose some one 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 in-doors to prepare dinner.

CHAPTER XVIII.
OUR TAVERN.

The next day was clear again, and we rambled in the woods until the
sun was nearly down, and so were late about supper. We were just
taking our seats at the table when we heard a footstep on the front
porch. Instantly the same thought came into each of our minds.
"I do believe," said Euphemia, "that's somebody who has mistaken
this for a tavern. I wonder whether it's a soldier or a farmer or
a sailor; but you had better go and see."
I went to see, prompted to move quickly by the new-comer pounding
his cane on the bare floor of the hall.


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