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, "an' he'd
better 'a' stayed at Lowry's, fur he had to wait a good sight
longer, after all, as it turned out. But he's dreadful mad at you,
an' says he'll bring ye farmers, an' soldiers, and sailors, an'
mechanics, if that's what ye want. I 'spect he'll do his best to
git a load of them particular people an' drop 'em at yer door. I'd
take down that sign, ef I was you. Not that me an' Danny minds,
fur we're glad to git a stage to feed, an' ef you've any single man
that wants lodgin' we've fixed up a room and kin keep him
overnight."
Notwithstanding this warning, Euphemia and I decided not to take in
our sign. We were not to be frightened by a stage-driver. The
next day our own driver passed us on the road as he was going down.
"So ye're pertickler about the people ye take in, are ye?" said he,
smiling. "That's all right, but ye made Bill awful mad."
It was quite late on a Monday afternoon that Bill stopped at our
house again. He did not call out this time. He simply drew up,
and a man with a big black valise clambered down from the top of
the stage. Then Bill shouted to me as I walked down to the gate,
looking rather angry I suppose:
"I was agoin' to git ye a whole stage-load, to stay all night, but
that one'll do ye, I reckon. Ha, ha!" And off he went, probably
fearing that I would throw his passenger up on the top of the stage
again.
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