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

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СКАЧАТЬ It’s an easy life; and, if rightly seen after, one in which a man is sure to make money.”

      “You were still doing a fair business with your mill?”

      “Oh, yes. Whatever I do, I do right. Last year, I put by a thousand dollars above all expenses, which is not bad, I can assure you, for a mere grist mill. If the present owner comes out even, he’ll do well!”

      “How is that?”

      “Oh, he’s no miller. Give him the best wheat that is grown, and he’ll ruin it in grinding. He takes the life out of every grain. I don’t believe he’ll keep half the custom that I transferred with the mill.”

      “A thousand dollars, clear profit, in so useful a business, ought to have satisfied you,” said I.

      “There you and I differ,” answered the landlord. “Every man desires to make as much money as possible, and with the least labor. I hope to make two or three thousand dollars a year, over and above all expenses, at tavern-keeping. My bar alone ought to yield me that sum. A man with a wife and children very naturally tries to do as well by them as possible.”

      “Very true; but,” I ventured to suggest, “will this be doing as well by them as if you had kept on at the mill?”

      “Two or three thousand dollars a year against one thousand! Where are your figures, man?”

      “There may be something beyond money to take into the account,” said I.

      “What?” inquired Slade, with a kind of half credulity.

      “Consider the different influences of the two callings in life—that of a miller and a tavern-keeper.”

      “Well, say on.”

      “Will your children be as safe from temptation here as in their former home?”

      “Just as safe,” was the unhesitating answer. “Why not?”

      I was about to speak of the alluring glass in the case of Frank, but remembering that I had already expressed a fear in that direction, felt that to do so again would be useless, and so kept silent.

      “A tavern-keeper,” said Slade, “is just as respectable as a miller—in fact, the very people who used to call me ‘Simon’ or ‘Neighbor Dustycoat,’ now say ‘Landlord,’ or ‘Mr. Slade,’ and treat me in every way more as if I were an equal than ever they did before.”

      “The change,” said I, “may be due to the fact of your giving evidence of possessing some means. Men are very apt to be courteous to those who have property. The building of the tavern has, without doubt, contributed to the new estimation in which you are held.”

      “That isn’t all,” replied the landlord. “It is because I am keeping a good tavern, and thus materially advancing the interests of Cedarville, that some of our best people look at me with different eyes.”

      “Advancing the interests of Cedarville! In what way?” I did not apprehend his meaning.

      “A good tavern always draws people to a place, while a miserable old tumble-down of an affair, badly kept, such as we have had for years, as surely repels them. You can generally tell something about the condition of a town by looking at its taverns. If they are well kept, and doing a good business, you will hardly be wrong in the conclusion that the place is thriving. Why, already, since I built and opened the ‘Sickle and Sheaf,’ property has advanced over twenty per cent along the whole street, and not less than five new houses have been commenced.”

      “Other causes, besides the simple opening of a new tavern, may have contributed to this result,” said I.

      “None of which I am aware. I was talking with Judge Hammond only yesterday—he owns a great deal of ground on the street—and he did not hesitate to say, that the building and opening of a good tavern here had increased the value of his property at least five thousand dollars. He said, moreover, that he thought the people of Cedarville ought to present me with a silver pitcher; and that, for one, he would contribute ten dollars for that purpose.”

      The ringing of the supper bell interrupted further conversation; and with the best of appetites, I took my way to the room, where a plentiful meal was spread. As I entered, I met the wife of Simon Slade, just passing out, after seeing that every thing was in order. I had not observed her before; and now could not help remarking that she had a flushed, excited countenance, as if she had been over a hot fire, and was both worried and fatigued. And there was, moreover, a peculiar expression of the mouth, never observed in one whose mind is entirely at ease—an expression that once seen is never forgotten. The face stamped itself instantly on my memory; and I can even now recall it with almost the original distinctness. How strongly it contrasted with that of her smiling, self-satisfied husband, who took his place at the head of his table with an air of conscious importance. I was too hungry to talk much, and so found greater enjoyment in eating than in conversation. The landlord had a more chatty guest by his side, and I left them to entertain each other, while I did ample justice to the excellent food with which the table was liberally provided.

      After supper I went to the sitting-room, and remained there until the lamps were lighted. A newspaper occupied my time for perhaps half an hour; then the buzz of voices from the adjoining bar-room, which had been increasing for some time, attracted my attention, and I went in there to see and hear what was passing. The first person upon whom my eyes rested was young Hammond, who sat talking with a man older than himself by several years. At a glance, I saw that this man could only associate himself with Willy Hammond as a tempter. Unscrupulous selfishness was written all over his sinister countenance; and I wondered that it did not strike every one, as it did me, with instant repulsion. There could not be, I felt certain, any common ground of association, for two such persons, but the dead level of a village bar-room. I afterward learned, during the evening, that this man’s name was Harvey Green, and that he was an occasional visitor at Cedarville, remaining a few days, or a few weeks at a time, as appeared to suit his fancy, and having no ostensible business or special acquaintance with anybody in the village.

      “There is one thing about him,” remarked Simon Slade, in answering some question that I put in reference to the man, “that I don’t object to; he has plenty of money, and is not at all niggardly in spending it. He used to come here, so he told me, about once in five or six months; but his stay at the miserably kept tavern, the only one then in Cedarville, was so uncomfortable, that he had pretty well made up his mind never to visit us again. Now, however, he has engaged one of my best rooms, for which he pays me by the year, and I am to charge him full board for the time he occupies it. He says that there is something about Cedarville that always attracts him; and that his health is better while here than it is anywhere except South during the winter season. He’ll never leave less than two or three hundred dollars a year in our village—there is one item, for you, of advantage to a place in having a good tavern.”

      “What is his business?” I asked. “Is he engaged in any trading operations?”

      The landlord shrugged his shoulders, and looked slightly mysterious, as he answered:

      “I never inquire about the business of a guest. My calling is to entertain strangers. If they are pleased with my house, and pay my bills on presentation, I have no right to seek further. As a miller, I never asked a customer, whether he raised, bought, or stole his wheat. It was my business to grind it, and I took care to do it well. Beyond that, it was all his own affair. And so it will be in my new calling. I shall mind my own business and keep my own place.”

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