Ten Nights in a Bar Room. T. S. Arthur

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СКАЧАТЬ shall have that, cooked fit for an alderman,” said the landlord. “I call my wife the best cook in Cedarville.”

      As he spoke, a neatly dressed girl, about sixteen years of age, with rather an attractive countenance, passed through the room.

      “My daughter,” said the landlord, as she vanished through the door. There was a sparkle of pride in the father’s eyes, and a certain tenderness in the tones of his voice, as he said “My daughter” that told me she was very dear to him.

      “You are a happy man to have so fair a child,” said I, speaking more in compliment than with a careful choice of words.

      “I am a happy man,” was the landlord’s smiling answer; his fair, round face, unwrinkled by a line of care or trouble, beaming with self-satisfaction. “I have always been a happy man, and always expect to be. Simon Slade takes the world as it comes, and takes it easy. My son, sir,” he added, as a boy, in his twelfth year, came in. “Speak to the gentleman.”

      The boy lifted to mine a pair of deep blue eyes, from which innocence beamed, as he offered me his hand, and said, respectfully—”How do you do, sir?” I could not but remark the girl-like beauty of his face, in which the hardier firmness of the boy’s character was already visible.

      “What is your name?” I asked.

      “Frank, sir.”

      “Frank is his name,” said the landlord—”we called him after his uncle. Frank and Flora—the names sound pleasant to the ears. But you know parents are apt to be a little partial and over fond.”

      “Better that extreme than its opposite,” I remarked.

      “Just what I always say. Frank, my son,”—the landlord spoke to the boy—”there’s some one in the bar. You can wait on him as well as I can.”

      The lad glided from the room in ready obedience.

      “A handy boy that, sir; a very handy boy. Almost as good, in the bar as a man. He mixes a toddy or a punch just as well as I can.”

      “But,” I suggested, “are you not a little afraid of placing one so young in the way of temptation?”

      “Temptation!” The open brows of Simon Slade contracted a little. “No, sir!” he replied, emphatically. “The till is safer under his care than it would be in that of one man in ten. The boy comes, sir, of honest parents. Simon Slade never wronged anybody out of a farthing.”

      “Oh,” said I, quickly, “you altogether misapprehend me. I had no reference to the till, but to the bottle.”

      The landlord’s brows were instantly unbent, and a broad smile circled over his good-humored face.

      “Is that all? Nothing to fear, I can assure you. Frank has no taste for liquor, and might pour it out for mouths without a drop finding its way to his lips. Nothing to apprehend there, sir—nothing.”

      I saw that further suggestions of danger would be useless, and so remained silent. The arrival of a traveler called away the landlord, and I was left alone for observation and reflection. The bar adjoined the neat sitting-room, and I could see, through the open door, the customer upon whom the lad was attending. He was a well-dressed young man—or rather boy, for he did not appear to be over nineteen years of age—with a fine, intelligent face, that was already slightly marred by sensual indulgence. He raised the glass to his lips, with a quick, almost eager motion, and drained it at a single draught.

      “Just right,” said he, tossing a sixpence to the young bar-tender. “You are first rate at a brandy-toddy. Never drank a better in my life.”

      The lad’s smiling face told that he was gratified by the compliment. To me the sight was painful, for I saw that this youthful tippler was on dangerous ground.

      “Who is that young man in the bar?” I asked, a few minutes afterward, on being rejoined by the landlord.

      Simon Slade stepped to the door and looked into the bar for a moment.

      Two or three men were there by this time; but he was at no loss in answering my question.

      “Oh, that’s a son of Judge Hammond, who lives in the large brick house as you enter the village. Willy Hammond, as everybody familiarly calls him, is about the finest young man in our neighborhood. There is nothing proud or put-on about him—nothing—even if his father is a judge, and rich into the bargain. Every one, gentle or simple, likes Willy Hammond. And then he is such good company. Always so cheerful, and always with a pleasant story on his tongue. And he’s so high-spirited withal, and so honorable. Willy Hammond would lose his right hand rather than be guilty of a mean action.”

      “Landlord!” The voice came loud from the road in front of the house, and Simon Slade again left me to answer the demands of some new-comer. I went into the bar-room, in order to take a closer observation of Willy Hammond, in whom an interest, not unmingled with concern, had already been awakened in my mind. I found him engaged in a pleasant conversation with a plain-looking farmer, whose homely, terse, common sense was quite as conspicuous as his fine play of words and lively fancy. The farmer was a substantial conservative, and young Hammond a warm admirer of new ideas and the quicker adaptation of means to ends. I soon saw that his mental powers were developed beyond his years, while his personal qualities were strongly attractive. I understood better, after being a silent listener and observer for ten minutes, why the landlord had spoken of him so warmly.

      “Take a brandy-toddy, Mr. H—?” said Hammond, after the discussion closed, good humoredly. “Frank, our junior bar-keeper here, beats his father, in that line.”

      “I don’t care if I do,” returned the farmer; and the two passed up to the bar.

      “Now, Frank, my boy, don’t belie my praises,” said the young man; “do your handsomest.”

      “Two brandy-toddies, did you say?” Frank made inquiry with quite a professional air.

      “Just what I did say; and let them be equal to Jove’s nectar.”

      Pleased at this familiarity, the boy went briskly to his work of mixing the tempting compound, while Hammond looked on with an approving smile.

      “There,” said the latter, as Frank passed the glasses across the counter, “if you don’t call that first-rate, you’re no judge.” And he handed one of them to the farmer, who tasted the agreeable draught, and praised its flavor. As before, I noticed that Hammond drank eagerly, like one athirst—emptying his glass without once taking it from his lips.

      Soon after the bar-room was empty; and then I walked around the premises, in company with the landlord, and listened to his praise of everything and his plans and purposes for the future. The house, yard, garden, and out-buildings were in the most perfect order; presenting, in the whole, a model of a village tavern.

      “Whatever I do, sir,” said the talkative Simon Slade, “I like to do well. I wasn’t just raised to tavern-keeping, you must know; but I am one who can turn his hand to almost any thing.”

      “What was your business?” I inquired.

      “I’m a miller, sir, by trade,” he answered—”and a better miller, though I say it myself, is not to be found in Bolton county. I’ve followed milling these twenty years, and СКАЧАТЬ