After we had
fastened the house and had gone to our room, my wife said to me,
"Where is your pistol?"
I produced it.
"Well," said she, "I think you ought to have it where you can get
at it."
"Why so?" I asked. "You generally want me to keep it out of sight
and reach."
"Yes; but when there is a strange man in the house we ought to take
extra precautions."
"But this man you say is honest," I replied. "If he committed a
crime he could not escape,--his appearance is so peculiar."
"But that wouldn't do us any good, if we were both murdered," said
Euphemia, pulling a chair up to my side of the bed, and laying the
pistol carefully thereon, with the muzzle toward the bed.
We were not murdered, and we had a very pleasant breakfast with the
artist, who told us more anecdotes of his life in Mexico and other
places. When, after breakfast, he shut up his valise, preparatory
to starting away, we felt really sorry. When he was ready to go,
he asked for his bill.
"Oh! There is no bill," I exclaimed. "We have no idea of charging
you anything. We don't really keep a hotel, as I told you."
"If I had known that," said he, looking very grave, "I would not
have stayed. There is no reason why you should give me food and
lodgings, and I would not, and did not, ask it. I am able to pay
for such things, and I wish to do so."
We argued with him for some time, speaking of the habits of country
people and so on, but he would not be convinced.
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