Part 13 (2/2)

The driver was an old farmer, and dressed in the cloth of the country, with a large capote of the same material drawn over his head and weather-beaten face, which left his sharp black eyes, red nose, and wide mouth alone visible. He flourished in his hand a large whip of raw hide, which ever and anon descended upon the backs of his rawboned cattle like the strokes of a flail.

”Get up--go along--waye,” cried he, suddenly drawing up at the door of the hotel. ”Well, here we be at last, and jist in time for the con-sort.” Then hitching the horses to the post, and flinging the buffalo robes over them, he left the three females he was driving in the sleigh, and ran directly up to me,--”Arn't you the con-sort man?

I guess you be, by them ere black pants and Sunday-goin' gear.”

I nodded a.s.sent.

”What's the damage?”

”Half a dollar.”

”Half a dollar? You don't mean to say that!”

”Not a cent less.”

”Well, it will be _expensive_. There's my wife and two darters, and myself; and the galls never seed a con-sort.”

”Well,” said I, ”as there are four of you, you may come in at a dollar and a half.”

”How; a dollar and a harf! I will go and have a talk with the old woman, and hear what she says to it.”

He returned to the sleigh, and after chatting for a few minutes with the women, he helped them out, and the four followed me into the common reception room of the inn. The farmer placed a pail of b.u.t.ter on the table, and said with a shrewd curl of his long nose, and a wink from one of his cunning black eyes, ”There's some pretty good b.u.t.ter, mister.”

I was amused at the idea, and replied, ”Pretty good b.u.t.ter! What is that to me? I do not buy b.u.t.ter.”

”Not buy b.u.t.ter! Why you don't say! It is the very best article in the market jist now.”

For a bit of fun I said,--”Never mind; I will take your b.u.t.ter. What is it worth?”

”It was worth ten cents last week, mister; I don't know what it's worth now. It can't have fallen, no-how.”

I took my knife from my pocket, and in a very business-like manner proceeded to taste the article. ”Why,” said I, ”this b.u.t.ter is not good.”

Here a sharp-faced woman stepped briskly up, and poking her head between us, said, at the highest pitch of her cracked voice,--”Yes, it is good; it was made this morning _express-ly_ for the _con-sort_.”

”I beg your pardon, madam. I am not in the habit of buying b.u.t.ter. To oblige you, I will take this. How much is there of it?”

”I don't know. Where are your steelyards?”

”Oh,” said I, laughing, ”I don't carry such things with me. I will take it at your own valuation, and you may go in with your family.”

”'Tis a bargain,” says she. ”Go in, galls, and fix yourselves for the _con-sort_.”

As the room was fast filling, I thought it time to present myself to the company, and made my entrance, accompanied by that incorrigible pest, the singing master, who, without the least embarra.s.sment, took his seat by the piano. After singing several of my best songs, I invited him to try his skill.

”Oh, certainly,” said he; ”to tell you the truth, I am a _leetle_ su rprised that you did not ask me to lead off.”

”I would have done so; but I could not alter the arrangement of the programme.”

”Ah, well, I excuse you this time, but it was not very polite, to say the least of it.” Then, taking my seat at the piano with as much confidence as Braham ever had, he run his hand over the keys, exclaiming ”What shall I sing? I will give you one of Russell's songs; they suit my voice best. Ladies and gentlemen, I am going to favour you by singing Henry Russell's celebrated song, 'I love to roam,' and accompany myself upon the pee-a-ne-forty.”

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