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, upholsterers, and dentists.
"Do not think anything 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
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
WASPS'
HOTEL.
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