Part 29 (1/2)

”Hel-lo! hos-e-lair? Landlord?”

Leisurely stalking down the steps, the Dutch hostler advanced towards the queer and questionable travelling equipage.

”Vel, vot you vont, ah?”

”Vat sal I vant? I sal vant to put oup my hoss, vis-ze stab'l, viz two pecks of oats and plenty of hay, hos-e-lair.”

”Yaw,” was the laconic grunt of the hostler, as he proceeded to unhitch old bald-face from his rigging.

”Stop one little,” said the traveller. ”I see 'tis very mosh like to rain, to-night; put up my gig in ze stab'l, too.”

”Boosh, tonner and blitzen, der rain not hurt yer ole gig!”

”I pay you for vat you sal do for me, mind vat I sal say, sair, if you pleaze.”

The hostler, very surlily, led the traveller's weary old brute to the stable; but, prior to carrying out the orders of the traveller, he sought the landlord, to know if it would _pay_ to put up the shabby concern, and treat the old horse to a real feed of hay and oats, without making some inquiries into the financial situation of the old Frenchman.

The landlord, with a country lawyer and a neighboring farmer, were at the _Bar_, one of those old-fas.h.i.+oned _slatted_ coops, in a corner, peculiar to Pennsylvania, discussing the merits of a law suit, seizure of the property, &c., of a deceased tiller of the soil, in the vicinity.

Busily chatting, and quaffing their _toddy_, the entrance of the poor old traveller was scarcely noticed, until he had divested himself of his old, many-caped cloak, and demurely taken a seat in the room. The hostler having reappeared, and talked a little Dutch to the host, that worthy turned to the traveller--

”Good even'ns, thravel'r!”

”Yes, sair;” pleasantly responded the Frenchman, ”a little.”

”You got a hoss, eh?” continued the landlord.

”Yes, sair, I vish ze hostlair to give mine hoss plenty to eat--plenty hay, plenty oats, plenty watair, sair.”

”Yaw,” responded the landlord, ”den, Jacob, give'm der oats, and der hay, and der water;” and, with this brief direction to his subordinate, the landlord turned away from the way-worn traveller to resume his conversation with his more, apparently, influential friends. The old Frenchman very patiently waited until the discussion should cease, and the landlord's ear be disengaged, that he might be apprized of the fact that travellers had stomachs, and that of the old French gentleman was highly _incensed_ by long delay, and more particularly by the odorous fumes of roast fowls, ham and eggs, &c., issuing from the inner portion of the tavern.

”Landlord, I vil take suppair, if you please,” said he.

”Yaw; after dese gentlemans shall eat der suppers, den somesing will be prepared for you.”

”Sair!” said the old Frenchman, firing up; ”I vill not vait for ze shentilmen; I vant my suppair now, directly--right away; I not vait for n.o.body, sair!”

”If you no like 'em, den you go off, out mine house,” answered the old sour krout, ”you old barber!”

”Bar-bair!” gasped the old Frenchman, in suppressed rage. ”Sair, I vill go no where, I vill stay here so long, by gar, as--as--as I please, sair!”

”Are you aware, sir,” interposed the legal gentleman, ”that you are rendering gross and offensive, malicious and libellous, scandalous and burglarious language to this gentleman, in his own domicile, with malice prepense and aforethought, and a ----”

”Pooh! pooh! _pooh!_ for you, sair!” testily replied the Frenchman.

”Pooh? To me, sir? _Me, sir?_” bullyingly echoed Blackstone.

”Yes, sair--pooh--_pooh!_ von geese, sair!”

It were vain to try to depict the rage of wounded pride, the insolence of a travelling _barber_ had stirred up in the very face of the man of law, logic, and legal lore. He swelled up, blowed and strutted about like a _miffed_ gobbler in a barn yard! He tried to cork down his rage, but it bursted forth--