"They stops when they sees me, an' the lady she bows and says
'good-mornin',' an' then she smiles, very pleasant, an' asks if I was
a-livin' here, an' when I said I was, she says she was too, for the
present, an' what was my name. I had half a mind to say the Earl-ess
Random, but she was so pleasant and sociable that I didn't like to seem
to be makin' fun, an' so I said I was Mrs. De Henderson.

"'An' I,' says she, 'am Mrs. General Andrew Jackson, widow of the
ex-President of the United States. I am staying here on business
connected with the United States Bank. This is my brother,' says she,
pointin' to the big man.

"'How d'ye do?' says he, a-puttin' his hands together, turnin' his toes
out an' makin' a funny little bow. 'I am General Tom Thumb,' he says
in a deep, gruff voice, 'an' I've been before all the crown-ed heads of
Europe, Asia, Africa, America an' Australia,--all a's but one,--an' I'm
waitin' here for a team of four little milk-white oxen, no bigger than
tall cats, which is to be hitched to a little hay-wagon, which I am to
ride in, with a little pitch-fork an' real farmer's clothes, only
small. This will come to-morrow, when I will pay for it an' ride away to
exhibit. It may be here now, an' I will go an' see. Good-bye.'

"'Good-bye, likewise,' says the lady. 'I hope you'll have all you're
thinkin' you're havin', an' more too, but less if you'd like it.
Farewell.' An' away they goes.

"Well, you may be sure, I stood there amazed enough, an' mad too when I
heard her talk about my bein' all I was a-thinkin' I was. I was sure my
husband--scarce two weeks old, a husband--had told all. It was too bad.
I wished I had jus' said I was the Earl-ess of Random an' brassed it
out.

"I rushed back an' foun' him smokin' a pipe on a back porch. I charged
him with his perfidy, but he vowed so earnest that he had not told these
people of our fancies, or ever had spoke to 'em, that I had to believe
him.

"'I expec',' says he, 'that they're jus' makin'-believe--as we are.
There aint no patent on make-believes.'

"This didn't satisfy me, an' as he seemed to be so careless about it I
walked away, an' left him to his pipe. I determined to go take a walk
along some of the country roads an' think this thing over for myself.
I went aroun' to the front gate, where the woman of the house was
a-standin' talkin' to somebody, an' I jus' bowed to her, for I didn't
feel like sayin' anything, an' walked past her.

"'Hello!' said she, jumpin' in front of me an' shuttin' the gate.
'You can't go out here. If you want to walk you can walk about in the
grounds. There's lots of shady paths.'

"'Can't go out!' says I. 'Can't go out! What do you mean by that?'

"'I mean jus' what I say,' said she, an' she locked the gate.

"I was so mad that I could have pushed her over an' broke the gate, but
I thought that if there was anything of that kind to do I had a husband
whose business it was to attend to it, an' so I runs aroun' to him to
tell him. He had gone in, but I met Mrs. Jackson an' her brother.

"'What's the matter?' said she, seein' what a hurry I was in.

"'That woman at the gate,' I said, almost chokin' as I spoke, 'wont let
me out.'

"'She wont?' said Mrs. Jackson. 'Well, that's a way she has. Four times
the Bank of the United States has closed its doors before I was able to
get there, on account of that woman's obstinacy about the gate. Indeed,
I have not been to the Bank at all yet, for of course it is of no use to
go after banking hours.'

"'An' I believe, too,' said her brother in his heavy voice, 'that she
has kept out my team of little oxen. Otherwise it would be here now.'

"I couldn't stand any more of this an' ran into our room where my
husband was. When I told him what had happened, he was real sorry.

"'I didn't know you thought of going out,' he said, 'or I would have
told you all about it. An' now sit down an' quiet yourself, an' I'll
tell you jus' how things is.' So down we sits, an' says he, jus' as
carm as a summer cloud, 'My dear, this is a lunertic asylum. Now, don't
jump,' he says; 'I didn't bring you here, because I thought you was
crazy, but because I wanted you to see what kind of people they was who
imagined themselves earls and earl-esses, an' all that sort o' thing,
an' to have an idea how the thing worked after you'd been doing it a
good while an' had got used to it. I thought it would be a good thing,
while I was Earl Jiguel and you was a noble earl-ess, to come to a place
where people acted that way. I knowed you had read lots o' books about
knights and princes an' bloody towers, an' that you knowed all about
them things, but I didn't suppose you did know how them same things
looked in these days, an' a lunertic asylum was the only place where
you could see 'em. So I went to a doctor I knowed,' he says, 'an' got
a certificate from him to this private institution, where we could stay
for a while an' get posted on romantics.'

"'Then,' says I, 'the upshot was that you wanted to teach a lesson.'

"'Jus' that,' says he.

"'All right,' says I; 'it's teached. An' now let's get out of this as
quick as we kin.'

"'That'll suit me,' he says, 'an' we'll leave by the noon train. I'll go
an' see about the trunk bein' sent down.'

"So off he went to see the man who kept the house, while I falls to
packin' up the trunk as fast as I could."

"Weren't you dreadfully angry at him?" asked Euphemia, who, having a
romantic streak in her own composition, did not sympathize altogether
with this heroic remedy for Pomona's disease.

"No, ma'am," said Pomona, "not long. When I thought of Mrs. General
Jackson and Tom Thumb, I couldn't help thinkin' that I must have looked
pretty much the same to my husband, who, I knowed now, had only been
makin'-believe to make-believe. An' besides, I couldn't be angry very
long for laughin, for when he come back in a minute, as mad as a March
hare, an' said they wouldn't let me out nor him nuther, I fell to
laughin' ready to crack my sides.

"'They say,' said he, as soon as he could speak straight, 'that we can't
go out without another certificate from the doctor. I told 'em I'd go
myself an' see him about it but they said no, I couldn't, for if they
did that way everybody who ever was sent here would be goin' out the
next day to see about leavin'. I didn't want to make no fuss, so I told
them I'd write a letter to the doctor and tell him to send an order
that would soon show them whether we could go out or not. They said
that would be the best thing to do, an so I'm goin' to write it this
minute,'--which he did.

"'How long will we have to wait?' says I, when the letter was done.

"'Well,' says he, 'the doctor can't get this before to-morrow mornin',
an' even if he answers right away, we won't get our order to go out
until the next day. So we'll jus' have to grin an' bear it for a day an'
a half.'

"'This is a lively old bridal-trip,' said I,--'dry falls an' a lunertic
asylum.'

"'We'll try to make the rest of it better,' said he.

"But the next day wasn't no better. We staid in our room all day, for we
didn't care to meet Mrs. Jackson an' her crazy brother, an' I'm sure we
didn't want to see the mean creatures who kept the house. We knew well
enough that they only wanted us to stay so that they could get more
board-money out of us."

"I should have broken out," cried Euphemia. "I would never have staid
an hour in that place, after I found out what it was, especially on a
bridal trip."

"If we'd done that," said Pomona, "they'd have got men after us, an'
then everybody would have thought we was real crazy. We made up our
minds to wait for the doctor's letter, but it wasn't much fun. An' I
didn't tell no romantic stories to fill up the time. We sat down an'
behaved like the commonest kind o' people. You never saw anybody sicker
of romantics than I was when I thought of them two loons that called
themselves Mrs. Andrew Jackson and General Tom Thumb. I dropped Miguel
altogether, an' he dropped Jiguel, which was a relief to me, an' I took
strong to Jonas, even callin' him Jone, which I consider a good deal
uglier an' commoner even than Jonas. He didn't like this much, but said
that if it would help me out of the Miguel, he didn't care.

"Well, on the mornin' of the next day I went into the little front room
that they called the office, to see if there was a letter for us yet,
an' there wasn't nobody there to ask. But I saw a pile of letters under
a weight on the table, an' I jus' looked at these to see if one of 'em
was for us, an' if there wasn't the very letter Jone had written to the
doctor! They'd never sent it! I rushes back to Jone an' tells him, an'
he jus' set an' looked at me without sayin' a word. I didn't wonder he
couldn't speak.

"'I'll go an' let them people know what I think of 'em,' says I.

"'Don't do that,' said Jone, catchin' me by the sleeve. 'It wont do no
good. Leave the letter there, an' don't say nothin' about it. We'll stay
here till afternoon quite quiet, an' then we'll go away. That garden
wall isn't high.'

"'An' how about the trunk?' says I.

"'Oh, we'll take a few things in our pockets, an' lock up the trunk, an'
ask the doctor to send for it when we get to the city.'

"'All right,' says I. An' we went to work to get ready to leave.

"About five o'clock in the afternoon, when it was a nice time to take a
walk under the trees, we meandered quietly down to a corner of the back
wall, where Jone thought it would be rather convenient to get over. He
hunted up a short piece of board which he leaned up ag'in the wall, an'
then he put his foot on the top of that an' got hold of the top of the
wall an' climbed up, as easy as nuthin'. Then he reached down to help me
step onto the board. But jus' as he was agoin' to take me by the hand:
'Hello!' says he. 'Look a-there!' An' I turned round an' looked, an' if
there wasn't Mrs. Andrew Jackson an' General Tom Thumb a-walkin' down
the path.

"'What shall we do?' says I.

"'Come along,' says he. 'We aint a-goin' to stop for them. Get up, all
the same.'

"I tried to get up as he said, but it wasn't so easy for me on account
of my not bein' such a high stepper as Jone, an' I was a good while
a-gettin' a good footin' on the board.

"Mrs. Jackson an' the General, they came right up to us an' set down on
a bench which was fastened between two trees near the wall. An' there
they set, a-lookin' steady at us with their four little eyes, like four
empty thimbles.

"'You appear to be goin' away,' says Mrs. Jackson.

"'Yes,' says Jone from the top of the wall. We're a-goin' to take a
slight stroll outside, this salu-brious evenin'.'

"'Do you think,' says she, 'that the United States Bank would be open
this time of day?'

"'Oh no,' says Jone, 'the banks all close at three o'clock. It's a good
deal after that now.'

"'But if I told the officers who I was, wouldn't that make a
difference?' says she. 'Wouldn't they go down an' open the bank?'

"'Not much,' says Jone, givin' a pull which brought me right up to the
top o' the wall an' almost clean down the other side, with one jerk. 'I
never knowed no officers that would do that. But,' says he, a kind o'
shuttin' his eyes so that she shouldn't see he was lyin', 'we'll talk
about that when we come back.'

"'If you see that team of little oxen,' says the big man, 'send 'em
'round to the front gate.'

"'All right,' says Jone; an' he let me down the outside of the wall as
if I had been a bag o' horse-feed.

"'But if the bank isn't open you can't pay for it when it does come,' we
heard the old lady a-sayin' as we hurried off.

"We didn't lose no time agoin' down to that station, an' it's lucky we
didn't, for a train for the city was comin' jus' as we got there, an' we
jumped aboard without havin' no time to buy tickets. There wasn't many
people in our car, an we got a seat together.

"'Now then,' says Jone, as the cars went abuzzin' along, 'I feel as if
I was really on a bridal-trip, which I mus' say I didn't at that there
asylum.'

"An' then I said: 'I should think not,' an' we both bust out a-laughin',
as well we might, feelin' sich a change of surroundin's.

"'Do you think,' says somebody behind us, when we'd got through
laughin', 'that if I was to send a boy up to the cashier he would either
come down or send me the key of the bank?'

"We both turned aroun' as quick as lightnin', an' if there wasn't them
two lunertics in the seat behind us!

"It nearly took our breaths away to see them settin' there, staring at
us with their thimble eyes, an' a-wearin' their little straw hats, both
alike.

"'How on the livin' earth did you two got here?' says I, as soon as I
could speak.

"'Oh, we come by the same way you come--by the tem-per-ary stairs,' says
Mrs. Jackson. 'We thought if it was too late to draw any money to-night,
it might be well to be on hand bright an' early in the mornin'. An' so
we follered you two, as close as we could, because we knew you could
take us right to the very bank doors, an' we didn't know the way
ourselves, not never havin' had no occasion to attend to nothin' of this
kind before.'

"Jone an' I looked at each other, but we didn't speak for a minute.

"'Then,' says I, 'here's a pretty kittle o' fish.'

"'I should kinder say so,' says Jone. 'We've got these here two
lunertics on our hands, sure enough, for there ain't no train back to
Pokus tonight, an' I wouldn't go back with 'em if there was. We must
keep an eye on 'em till we can see the doctor to-morrow.'

"'I suppose we must,' said I, 'but this don't seem as much like a
bridal-trip as it did a while ago.'

"'You're right there,' says Jone.

"When the conductor came along we had to pay the fare of them two
lunertics, besides our own, for neither of 'em had a cent about 'em.
When we got to town we went to a smallish hotel, near the ferry, where
Jone knowed the man who kep' it, who wouldn't bother about none of us
havin' a scrap of baggage, knowin' he'd get his money all the same, out
of either Jone or his father. The General an' his sister looked a kind
o' funny in their little straw hats an' green carpet-slippers, an' the
clerk didn't know whether he hadn't forgot how to read writin' when the
big man put down the names of General Tom Thumb and Mrs. ex-President
Andrew Jackson, which he wasn't ex-President anyway, bein' dead; but
Jone he whispered they was travelin' under nommys dess plummys (I told
him to say that), an' he would fix it all right in the mornin'. An' then
we got some supper, which it took them two lunertics a long time to eat,
for they was all the time forgettin' what particular kind o' business
they was about, an' then we was showed to our rooms. They had two rooms
right across the hall from ours. We hadn't been inside our room five
minutes before Mrs. General Jackson come a-knockin' at the door.

"'Look a-here,' she says to me, 'there's a unforeseen contingency in my
room. An' it smells.'

"So I went right in, an' sure enough it did smell, for she had turned on
all the gases, besides the one that was lighted.

"'What did you do that for?' says I, a-turnin' them off as fast as I
could.

"'I'd like to know what they're made for,' says she, 'if they isn't to
be turned on.'

"When I told Jone about this he looked real serious, an' jus' then a
waiter came upstairs an' went into the big man's room. In a minute he
come out an' says to Jone an' me, a-grinnin':

"'We can't suit him no better in this house.'

"'What does he want?' asks Jone.

"'Why, he wants a smaller bed,' says the waiter. 'He says he can't sleep
in a bed as big as that, an' we haven't none smaller in this house,
which he couldn't get into if we had, in my opinion,' says he.

"'All right,' says Jone. 'Jus' you go downstairs, an' I'll fix him.' So
the man goes off, still a-grinnin'. 'I tell you what it is,' says Jone,
'it wont do to let them two lunertics have rooms to themselves. They'll
set this house afire or turn it upside down in the middle of the night,
if they has. There's nuthin' to be done but for you to sleep with the
woman an' for me to sleep with the man, an' to keep 'em from cuttin' up
till mornin'.'

"So Jone he went into the room where General Tom Thumb was a-settin'
with his hat on, a-lookin' doleful at the bed, an' says he:

"'What's the matter with the bed?'

"'Oh, it's too large entirely,' says the General. 'It wouldn't do for
me to sleep in a bed like that. It would ruin my character as a genuine
Thumb.'

"'Well,' says Jone, 'it's nearly two times too big for you, but if you
an' me was both to sleep in it, it would be about right, wouldn't it?'

"'Oh yes,' says the General. An' he takes off his hat, an' Jone says
good-night to me an' shuts the door. Our room was better than Mrs.
General Jackson's, so I takes her in there, an' the fust thing she does
is to turn on all the gases.

"'Stop that!' I hollers. 'If you do that again,--I'll--I'll break the
United States Bank tomorrow!'

"'How'll you do that?' says she.

"'I'll draw out all my capital,' says I.

"'I hope really you wont,' says she, 'till I've been there,' an' she
leans out of the open winder to look into the street, but while she
was a-lookin' out I see her left hand a-creepin' up to the gas by the
winder, that wasn't lighted. I felt mad enough to take her by the feet
an' pitch her out, as you an the boarder," said Pomona, turning to me,
"h'isted me out of the canal-boat winder."

This, by the way, was the first intimation we had had that Pomona knew
how she came to fall out of that window.

"But I didn't do it," she continued, "for there wasn't no soft water
underneath for her to fall into. After we went to bed I kep' awake for
a long time, bein' afraid she'd get up in the night an' turn on all the
gases and smother me alive. But I fell asleep at last, an' when I woke
up, early in the mornin', the first thing I did was to feel for that
lunertic. But she was gone!"



CHAPTER XVI. IN WHICH AN OLD FRIEND APPEARS AND THE BRIDAL TRIP TAKES A
FRESH START.


"Gone?" cried Euphemia, who, with myself, had been listening most
intently to Pomona's story.

"Yes," continued Pomona, "she was gone. I give one jump out of bed
and felt the gases, but they was all right. But she was gone, an' her
clothes was gone. I dressed, as pale as death, I do expect, an' hurried
to Jone's room, an' he an' me an' the big man was all ready in no time
to go an' look for her. General Tom Thumb didn't seem very anxious, but
we made him hurry up an' come along with us. We couldn't afford to leave
him nowheres. The clerk down-stairs--a different one from the chap who
was there the night before--said that a middle-aged, elderly lady came
down about an hour before an' asked him to tell her the way to the
United States Bank, an' when he told her he didn't know of any such
bank, she jus' stared at him, an' wanted to know what he was put there
for. So he didn't have no more to say to her, an' she went out, an' he
didn't take no notice which way she went. We had the same opinion about
him that Mrs. Jackson had, but we didn't stop to tell him so. We hunted
up an' down the streets for an hour or more; we asked every policeman we
met if he'd seen her; we went to a police station; we did everything we
could think of, but no Mrs. Jackson turned up. Then we was so tired an'
hungry that we went into some place or other an' got our breakfast. When
we started out ag'in, we kep' on up one street an' down another, an'
askin' everybody who looked as if they had two grains of sense,--which
most of 'em didn't look as if they had mor'n one, an' that was in use
to get 'em to where they was goin.' At last, a little ways down a small
street, we seed a crowd, an' the minute we see it Jone an' me both
said in our inside hearts: 'There she is!' An' sure enough, when we got
there, who should we see, with a ring of street-loafers an' boys around
her, but Mrs. Andrew Jackson, with her little straw hat an' her green
carpet-slippers, a-dancin' some kind of a skippin' fandango, an'
a-holdin' out her skirts with the tips of her fingers. I was jus' agoin'
to rush in an' grab her when a man walks quick into the ring and touches
her on the shoulder. The minute I seed him I knowed him. It was our old
boarder!"

"It was?" exclaimed Euphemia.

"Yes it was truly him, an' I didn't want him to see me there in such
company, an' he most likely knowin' I was on my bridal-trip, an' so I
made a dive at my bonnet to see if I had a vail on; an' findin' one, I
hauled it down.

"'Madam,' says the boarder, very respectful, to Mrs. Jackson, 'where
do you live? Can't I take you home?' 'No, sir,' says she, 'at least not
now. If you have a carriage, you may come for me after a while. I am
waiting for the Bank of the United States to open, an' until which time
I must support myself on the light fantastic toe,' an' then she tuk
up her skirts, an' begun to dance ag'in. But she didn't make mor'n two
skips before I rushed in, an' takin' her by the arm hauled her out o'
the ring. An' then up comes the big man with his face as red as fire.
'Look' here!' says he to her, as if he was ready to eat her up. 'Did you
draw every cent of that money?' 'Not yet, not yet,' says she. 'You did,
you purse-proud cantalope,' says he. 'You know very well you did, an'
now I'd like to know where my ox-money is to come from.' But Jone an'
me didn't intend to wait for no sich talk as this, an' he tuk the man
by the arm, and I tuk the old woman, an' we jus' walked 'em off. The
boarder he told the loafers to get out an' go home, an' none of 'em
follered us, for they know'd if they did he'd a batted 'em over the
head. But he comes up alongside o' me, as I was a' walkin' behind with
Mrs. Jackson, an' says he: 'How d'ye do, Pomona?' I must say I felt as
if I could slip in between two flagstones, but as I couldn't get away, I
said I was pretty well. 'I heared you was on your bridal trip,' says he
ag'in; 'is this it?' It was jus' like him to know that, an' as there was
no help for it, I said it was. 'Is that your husband?' says he, pointin'
to Jone. 'Yes,' says I. 'It was very good in him to come along,' says
he. 'Is these two your groomsman and bridesmaid?' 'No sir,' says I.
'They're crazy.' 'No wonder,' says he. 'It's enough to drive 'em so, to
see you two,' an' then he went ahead an' shook hands with Jone, an' told
him he'd know'd me a long time; but he didn't say nuthin' about havin'
histed me out of a winder, for which I was obliged to him. An' then he
come back to me an' says he, 'Good-mornin', I must go to the office. I
hope you'll have a good time for the rest of your trip. If you happen
to run short o' lunertics, jus' let me know, and I'll furnish you with
another pair.' 'All right,' says I; 'but you mustn't bring your little
girl along.'

"He kinder laughed at this, as we walked away, an' then he turned
around an' come back, and says he, 'Have you been to any the-ay-ters, or
anything, since you've been in town?' 'No,' says I, 'not one.' 'Well,'
says he, 'you ought to go. Which do you like best, the the-ay-ter, the
cir-cus, or wild-beasts?' I did really like the the-ay-ter best, havin'
thought of bein' a play-actor, as you know, but I considered I'd better
let that kind o' thing slide jus' now, as bein' a little too romantic,
right after the 'sylum, an' so I says, 'I've been once to a circus, an'
once to a wild-beast garden, an' I like 'em both. I hardly know which I
like best--the roarin' beasts, a-prancin' about in their cages, with the
smell of blood an' hay, an' the towerin' elephants; or the horses, an'
the music, an' the gauzy figgers at the circus, an' the splendid knights
in armor an' flashin' pennants, all on fiery steeds, a-plungin' ag'in
the sides of the ring, with their flags a-flyin' in the grand entry,'
says I, real excited with what I remembered about these shows.

"'Well,' says he, 'I don't wonder at your feelin's. An' now, here's two
tickets for to-night, which you an' your husband can have, if you
like, for I can't go. They're to a meetin' of the Hudson County
Enter-mo-logical Society, over to Hoboken, at eight o'clock.'

"'Over to Hoboken!' says I; 'that's a long way.'

"'Oh no, it isn't,' says he. 'An' it wont cost you a cent, but the
ferry. They couldn't have them shows in the city, for, if the creatures
was to get loose, there's no knowin' what might happen. So take 'em, an'
have as much fun as you can for the rest of your trip. Good-bye!' An'
off he went.

"Well, we kep' straight on to the doctor's, an' glad we was when we got
there, an' mad he was when we lef' Mrs. Jackson an' the General on his
hands, for we wouldn't have no more to do with 'em, an' he couldn't help
undertaking' to see that they got back to the asylum. I thought at first
he wouldn't lift a finger to get us our trunk; but he cooled down after
a bit, an' said he hoped we'd try some different kind of institution for
the rest of our trip, which we said we thought we would.

"That afternoon we gawked around, a-lookin' at all the outside shows,
for Jone said he'd have to be pretty careful of his money now, an' he
was glad when I told him I had two free tickets in my pocket for a show
in the evenin.'

"As we was a-walkin' down to the ferry, after supper, says he:

"'Suppose you let me have a look at them tickets.'

"So I hands 'em to him. He reads one of 'em, and then he reads the
other, which he needn't 'a' done, for they was both alike, an' then he
turns to me, an' says he:

"'What kind of a man is your boarder-as-was?'

"It wasn't the easiest thing in the world to say jus' what he was, but I
give Jone the idea, in a general sort of way, that he was pretty lively.

"'So I should think,' says he. 'He's been tryin' a trick on us, and
sendin' us to the wrong place. It's rather late in the season for a show
of the kind, but the place we ought to go to is a potato-field.'

"'What on earth are you talkin' about?' says I, dumbfoundered.

"'Well,' says he, 'it's a trick he's been playin'. He thought a bridal
trip like ours ought to have some sort of a outlandish wind-up, an' so
he sent us to this place, which is a meetin' of chaps who are agoin'
to talk about insec's,--principally potato-bugs, I expec'--an' anything
stupider than that, I s'pose your boarder-as-was couldn't think of,
without havin' a good deal o' time to consider.'

"'It's jus' like him,' says I. 'Let's turn round and go back,' which we
did, prompt.

"We gave the tickets to a little boy who was sellin' papers, but I don't
believe he went.

"'Now then,' says Jone, after he'd been thinkin' awhile, 'there'll be no
more foolin' on this trip. I've blocked out the whole of the rest of it,
an' we'll wind up a sight better than that boarder-as-was has any idea
of. To-morrow we'll go to father's an' if the old gentleman has got any
money on the crops, which I expec' he has, by this time, I'll take up
a part o' my share, an' we'll have a trip to Washington, an' see the
President, an' Congress, an' the White House, an' the lamp always
a-burnin' before the Supreme Court, an'--'

"'Don't say no more, says I, 'it's splendid!'

"So, early the nex' day, we goes off jus' as fast as trains would take
us to his father's, an' we hadn't been there mor'n ten minutes, before
Jone found out he had been summoned on a jury.

"'When must you go?' says I, when he come, lookin' a kind o' pale, to
tell me this.

"'Right off,' says he. 'The court meets this mornin'. If I don't hurry
up, I'll have some of 'em after me. But I wouldn't cry about it. I don't
believe the case'll last more'n a day.'

"The old man harnessed up an' took Jone to the court-house, an' I went
too, for I might as well keep up the idea of a bridal-trip as not. I
went up into the gallery, and Jone, he was set among the other men in
the jury-box.

"The case was about a man named Brown, who married the half-sister of a
man named Adams, who afterward married Brown's mother, and sold Brown
a house he had got from Brown's grandfather, in trade for half a
grist-mill, which the other half of was owned by Adams's half-sister's
first husband, who left all his property to a soup society, in trust,
till his son should come of age, which he never did, but left a will
which give his half of the mill to Brown, and the suit was between Brown
and Adams and Brown again, and Adams's half-sister, who was divorced
from Brown, and a man named Ramsey, who had put up a new over-shot wheel
to the grist-mill."

"Oh my!" exclaimed Euphemia. "How could you remember all that?"

"I heard it so often, I couldn't help remembering it," replied Pomona.
And she went on with her narrative.

"That case wasn't a easy one to understand, as you may see for
yourselves, and it didn't get finished that day. They argyed over it a
full week. When there wasn't no more witnesses to carve up, one lawyer
made a speech, an' he set that crooked case so straight, that you
could see through it from the over-shot wheel clean back to Brown's
grandfather. Then another feller made a speech, and he set the whole
thing up another way. It was jus' as clear, to look through, but it was
another case altogether, no more like the other one than a apple-pie is
like a mug o' cider. An' then they both took it up, an' they swung it
around between them, till it was all twisted an' knotted an' wound up,
an' tangled, worse than a skein o' yarn in a nest o' kittens, an' then
they give it to the jury.

"Well, when them jurymen went out, there wasn't none of 'em, as Jone
tole me afterward, as knew whether is was Brown or Adams as was dead,
or whether the mill was to grind soup, or to be run by soup-power. Of
course they couldn't agree; three of 'em wanted to give a verdict for
the boy that died, two of 'em was for Brown's grandfather, an' the rest
was scattered, some goin' in for damages to the witnesses, who ought to
get somethin' for havin' their char-ac-ters ruined. Jone he jus' held
back, ready to jine the other eleven as soon as they'd agree. But they
couldn't do it, an' they was locked up three days and four nights. You'd
better believe I got pretty wild about it, but I come to court every day
an' waited an' waited, bringin' somethin' to eat in a baskit.

"One day, at dinner-time, I seed the judge astandin' at the court-room
door, a-wipin' his forrid with a handkerchief, an' I went up to him an'
said, 'Do you think, sir, they'll get through this thing soon?'

"'I can't say, indeed,' said he. 'Are you interested in the case?'

"'I should think I was,' said I, an' then I told him about Jone's bein'
a juryman, an' how we was on our bridal-trip.

"'You've got my sympathy, madam,' says he, 'but it's a difficult case to
decide, an' I don't wonder it takes a good while.'

"'Nor I nuther,' says I, 'an' my opinion about these things is, that if
you'd jus' have them lawyers shut up in another room, an' make 'em do
their talkin' to theirselves, the jury could keep their minds clear, and
settle the cases in no time.'

"'There's some sense in that, madam,' says he, an' then he went into
court ag'in.

"Jone never had no chance to jine in with the other fellers, for they
couldn't agree, an' they were all discharged, at last. So the whole
thing went for nuthin.

"When Jone come out, he looked like he'd been drawn through a pump-log,
an' he says to me, tired-like,

"'Has there been a frost?'

"'Yes,' says I, 'two of 'em.'

"'All right, then,' says he. 'I've had enough of bridal-trips, with
their dry falls, their lunatic asylums, and their jury-boxes. Let's
go home and settle down. We needn't be afraid, now that there's been a
frost.'"

"Oh, why will you live in such a dreadful place?" cried Euphemia. "You
ought to go somewhere where you needn't be afraid of chills."

"That's jus' what I thought, ma'am," returned Pomona. "But Jone an' me
got a disease-map of this country an' we looked all over it careful, an'
wherever there wasn't chills there was somethin' that seemed a good deal
wuss to us. An' says Jone, 'If I'm to have anything the matter with me,
give me somethin' I'm used to. It don't do for a man o' my time o' life
to go changin' his diseases.'"

"So home we went. An' there we is now. An' as this is the end of the
bridal-trip story, I'll go an' take a look at the cow an' the chickens
an' the horse, if you don't mind."

Which we didn't,--and we gladly went with her over the estate.



CHAPTER XVII. IN WHICH WE TAKE A VACATION AND LOOK FOR DAVID DUTTON.


It was about noon of a very fair July day, in the next summer, when
Euphemia and myself arrived at the little town where we were to take the
stage up into the mountains. We were off for a two weeks' vacation and
our minds were a good deal easier than when we went away before, and
left Pomona at the helm. We had enlarged the boundaries of Rudder
Grange, having purchased the house, with enough adjoining land to make
quite a respectable farm. Of course I could not attend to the manifold
duties on such a place, and my wife seldom had a happier thought than
when she proposed that we should invite Pomona and her husband to come
and live with us. Pomona was delighted, and Jonas was quite willing
to run our farm. So arrangements were made, and the young couple were
established in apartments in our back building, and went to work as if
taking care of us and our possessions was the ultimate object of their
lives. Jonas was such a steady fellow that we feared no trouble from
tree-man or lightning rodder during this absence.

Our destination was a country tavern on the stage-road, not far from the
point where the road crosses the ridge of the mountain-range, and about
sixteen miles from the town. We had heard of this tavern from a friend
of ours, who had spent a summer there. The surrounding country was
lovely, and the house was kept by a farmer, who was a good soul, and
tried to make his guests happy. These were generally passing farmers and
wagoners, or stage-passengers, stopping for a meal, but occasionally a
person from the cities, like our friend, came to spend a few weeks in
the mountains.

So hither we came, for an out-of-the-world spot like this was just what
we wanted. When I took our places at the stage-office, I inquired for
David Dutton, the farmer tavern-keeper before mentioned, but the agent
did not know of him.

"However," said he, "the driver knows everybody on the road, and he'll
set you down at the house."

So, off we started, having paid for our tickets on the basis that we
were to ride about sixteen miles. We had seats on top, and the trip,
although slow,--for the road wound uphill steadily,--was a delightful
one. Our way lay, for the greater part of the time, through the woods,
but now and then we came to a farm, and a turn in the road often gave us
lovely views of the foot-hills and the valleys behind us.

But the driver did not know where Dutton's tavern was. This we found out
after we had started. Some persons might have thought it wiser to settle
this matter before starting, but I am not at all sure that it would have
been so. We were going to this tavern, and did not wish to go anywhere
else. If people did not know where it was, it would be well for us to
go and look for it. We knew the road that it was on, and the locality in
which it was to be found.

Still, it was somewhat strange that a stage-driver, passing along
the road every week-day,--one day one way, and the next the other
way,--should not know a public-house like Dutton's.

"If I remember rightly," I said, "the stage used to stop there for the
passengers to take supper."

"Well, then, it aint on this side o' the ridge," said the driver; "we
stop for supper, about a quarter of a mile on the other side, at Pete
Lowry's. Perhaps Dutton used to keep that place. Was it called the
'Ridge House'?"

I did not remember the name of the house, but I knew very well that it
was not on the other side of the ridge.

"Then," said the driver, "I'm sure I don't know where it is. But I've
only been on the road about a year, and your man may 'a' moved away
afore I come. But there aint no tavern this side the ridge, arter ye
leave Delhi, and, that's nowhere's nigh the ridge."

There were a couple of farmers who were sitting by the driver, and who
had listened with considerable interest to this conversation. Presently,
one of them turned around to me and said:

"Is it Dave Dutton ye're askin' about?"

"Yes," I replied, "that's his name."

"Well, I think he's dead," said he.

At this, I began to feel uneasy, and I could see that my wife shared my
trouble.

Then the other farmer spoke up.

"I don't believe he's dead, Hiram," said he to his companion "I heered
of him this spring. He's got a sheep-farm on the other side o' the
mountain, and he's a livin' there. That's what I heered, at any rate.
But he don't live on this road any more," he continued, turning to us.
"He used to keep tavern on this road, and the stages did used to stop
fur supper--or else dinner, I don't jist ree-collect which. But he don't
keep tavern on this road no more."

"Of course not," said his companion, "if he's a livin' over the
mountain. But I b'lieve he's dead."

I asked the other farmer if he knew how long it had been since Dutton
had left this part of the country.

"I don't know fur certain," he said, "but I know he was keeping tavern
here two year' ago, this fall, fur I came along here, myself, and
stopped there to git supper--or dinner, I don't jist ree-collect which."

It had been three years since our friend had boarded at Dutton's house.
There was no doubt that the man was not living at his old place now.
My wife and I now agreed that it was very foolish in us to come so far
without making more particular inquiries. But we had had an idea that a
man who had a place like Dutton's tavern would live there always.

"What are ye goin' to do?" asked the driver, very much interested,
for it was not every day that he had passengers who had lost their
destination. "Ye might go on to Lowry's. He takes boarders sometimes."

But Lowry's did not attract us. An ordinary country-tavern, where
stage-passengers took supper, was not what we came so far to find.

"Do you know where this house o' Dutton's is?" said the driver, to the
man who had once taken either dinner or supper there.

"Oh yes! I'd know the house well enough, if I saw it. It's the fust
house this side o' Lowry's."

"With a big pole in front of it?" asked the driver.

"Yes, there was a sign-pole in front of it."

"An a long porch?"

"Yes."

"Oh! well!" said the driver, settling himself in his seat. "I know all
about that house. That's a empty house. I didn't think you meant that
house. There's nobody lives there. An' yit, now I come to remember, I
have seen people about, too. I tell ye what ye better do. Since ye're so
set on staying on this side the ridge, ye better let me put ye down
at Dan Carson's place. That's jist about quarter of a mile from where
Dutton used to live. Dan's wife can tell ye all about the Duttons, an'
about everybody else, too, in this part o' the country, and if there
aint nobody livin' at the old tavern, ye can stay all night at Carson's,
and I'll stop an' take you back, to-morrow, when I come along."

We agreed to this plan, for there was nothing better to be done, and,
late in the afternoon, we were set down with our small trunk--for we
were traveling under light weight--at Dan Carson's door. The stage was
rather behind time, and the driver whipped up and left us to settle our
own affairs. He called back, however, that he would keep a good lookout
for us to-morrow.

Mrs. Carson soon made her appearance, and, very naturally, was somewhat
surprised to see visitors with their baggage standing on her little
porch. She was a plain, coarsely dressed woman, with an apron full
of chips and kindling wood, and a fine mind for detail, as we soon
discovered.

"Jist so," said she, putting down the chips, and inviting us to seats on
a bench. "Dave Dutton's folks is all moved away. Dave has a good farm
on the other side o' the mountain, an' it never did pay him to keep that
tavern, 'specially as he didn't sell liquor. When he went away, his son
Al come there to live with his wife, an' the old man left a good deal
o' furniter and things fur him, but Al's wife aint satisfied here, and,
though they've been here, off an' on, the house is shet up most o' the
time. It's fur sale an' to rent, both, ef anybody wants it. I'm sorry
about you, too, fur it was a nice tavern, when Dave kept it."

We admitted that we were also very sorry, and the kind-hearted woman
showed a great deal of sympathy.

"You might stay here, but we haint got no fit room where you two could
sleep."

At this, Euphemia and I looked very blank. "But you could go up to the
house and stay, jist as well as not," Mrs. Carson continued. "There's
plenty o' things there, an' I keep the key. For the matter o' that, ye
might take the house for as long as ye want to stay; Dave 'd be glad
enough to rent it; and, if the lady knows how to keep house, it wouldn't
be no trouble at all, jist for you two. We could let ye have all the
victuals ye'd want, cheap, and there's plenty o' wood there, cut, and
everything handy."

We looked at each other. We agreed. Here was a chance for a rare good
time. It might be better, perhaps, than anything we had expected.

The bargain was struck. Mrs. Carson, who seemed vested with all the
necessary powers of attorney, appeared to be perfectly satisfied with
our trustworthiness, and when I paid on the spot the small sum she
thought proper for two weeks' rent, she evidently considered she had
done a very good thing for Dave Dutton and herself.

"I'll jist put some bread, an' eggs, an' coffee, an' pork, an' things in
a basket, an' I'll have 'em took up fur ye, with yer trunk, an' I'll go
with ye an' take some milk. Here, Danny!" she cried, and directly her
husband, a long, thin, sun-burnt, sandy-headed man, appeared, and to
him she told, in a few words, our story, and ordered him to hitch up the
cart and be ready to take our trunk and the basket up to Dutton's old
house.

When all was ready, we walked up the hill, followed by Danny and
the cart. We found the house a large, low, old-fashioned farm-house,
standing near the road with a long piazza in front, and a magnificent
view of mountain-tops in the rear. Within, the lower rooms were large
and low, with quite a good deal of furniture in them. There was no
earthly reason why we should not be perfectly jolly and comfortable
here. The more we saw, the more delighted we were at the odd experience
we were about to have. Mrs. Carson busied herself in getting things in
order for our supper and general accommodation. She made Danny carry
our trunk to a bedroom in the second story, and then set him to work
building a fire in a great fire-place, with a crane for the kettle.

When she had done all she could, it was nearly dark, and after lighting
a couple of candles, she left us, to go home and get supper for her own
family.

As she and Danny were about to depart in the cart, she ran back to ask
us if we would like to borrow a dog.

"There aint nuthin to be afeard of," she said; "for nobody hardly ever
takes the trouble to lock the doors in these parts, but bein' city
folks, I thought ye might feel better if ye had a dog."

We made haste to tell her that we were not city folks, but declined the
dog. Indeed, Euphemia remarked that she would be much more afraid of a
strange dog than of robbers.

After supper, which we enjoyed as much as any meal we ever ate in our
lives, we each took a candle, and after arranging our bedroom for the
night, we explored the old house. There were lots of curious things
everywhere,--things that were apparently so "old timey," as my wife
remarked, that David Dutton did not care to take them with him to his
new farm, and so left them for his son, who probably cared for them even
less than his father did. There was a garret extending over the whole
house, and filled with old spinning-wheels, and strings of onions, and
all sorts of antiquated bric-a-brac, which was so fascinating to me
that I could scarcely tear myself away from it; but Euphemia, who was
dreadfully afraid that I would set the whole place on fire, at length
prevailed on me to come down.

We slept soundly that night, in what was probably the best bedroom of
the house, and awoke with a feeling that we were about to enter on a
period of some uncommon kind of jollity, which we found to be true
when we went down to get breakfast. I made the fire, Euphemia made the
coffee, and Mrs. Carson came with cream and some fresh eggs. The good
woman was in high spirits. She was evidently pleased at the idea of
having neighbors, temporary though they were, and it had probably been
a long time since she had had such a chance of selling milk, eggs and
sundries. It was almost the same as opening a country store. We bought
groceries and everything of her.

We had a glorious time that day. We were just starting out for a
mountain stroll when our stage-driver came along on his down trip.

"Hello!" he called out. "Want to go back this morning?"

"Not a bit of it," I cried. "We wont go back for a couple of weeks.
We've settled here for the present."

The man smiled. He didn't seem to understand it exactly, but he was
evidently glad to see us so well satisfied. If he had had time to stop
and have the matter explained to him, he would probably have been better
satisfied; but as it was, he waved his whip to us and drove on. He was a
good fellow.

We strolled all day, having locked up the house and taken our lunch
with us; and when we came back, it seemed really like coming home.
Mrs. Carson with whom we had left the key, had brought the milk and was
making the fire. This woman was too kind. We determined to try and repay
her in some way. After a splendid supper we went to bed happy.

The next day was a repetition of this one, but the day after it
rained. So we determined to enjoy the old tavern, and we rummaged about
everywhere. I visited the garret again, and we went to the old barn,
with its mows half full of hay, and had rare times climbing about there.
We were delighted that it happened to rain. In a wood-shed, near the
house, I saw a big square board with letters on it. I examined the
board, and found it was a sign,--a hanging sign,--and on it was painted
in letters that were yet quite plain:


    "FARMERS'
       AND
    MECHANICS'
      HOTEL."


I called to Euphemia and told her that I had found the old tavern sign.
She came to look at it, and I pulled it out.

"Soldiers and sailors!" she exclaimed; "that's funny."

I looked over on her side of the sign, and, sure enough, there was the
inscription:


    "SOLDIERS
       AND
     SAILORS'
      HOUSE."


"They must have bought this comprehensive sign in some town," I said.
"Such a name would never have been chosen for a country tavern like
this. But I wish they hadn't taken it down. The house would look more
like what it ought to be with its sign hanging before it."

"Well, then," said Euphemia, "let's put it up." I agreed instantly to
this proposition, and we went to look for a ladder. We found one in the
wagon-house, and carried it out to the sign-post in the front of the
house. It was raining, gently, during these performances, but we had on
our old clothes, and were so much interested in our work that we did not
care for a little rain. I carried the sign to the post, and then, at the
imminent risk of breaking my neck, I hung it on its appropriate hooks on
the transverse beam of the sign-post. Now our tavern was really what it
pretended to be. We gazed on the sign with admiration and content.

"Do you think we had better keep it up all the time?" I asked of my
wife.

"Certainly," said she. "It's a part of the house. The place isn't
complete without it."

"But suppose some one should come along and want to be entertained?"

"But no one will. And if people do come, I'll take care of the soldiers
and sailors, if you will attend to the farmers and mechanics."

I consented to this, and we went in-doors to prepare dinner.



CHAPTER XVIII. OUR TAVERN.


The next day was clear again, and we rambled in the woods until the sun
was nearly down, and so were late about supper. We were just taking
our seats at the table when we heard a footstep on the front porch.
Instantly the same thought came into each of our minds.

"I do believe," said Euphemia, "that's somebody who has mistaken this
for a tavern. I wonder whether it's a soldier or a farmer or a sailor;
but you had better go and see."

I went to see, prompted to move quickly by the new-comer pounding his
cane on the bare floor of the hall. I found him standing just inside
of the front door. He was a small man, with long hair and beard, and
dressed in a suit of clothes of a remarkable color,--something of the
hue of faded snuff. He had a big stick, and carried a large flat valise
in one hand.

He bowed to me very politely.

"Can I stop here to-night?" he asked, taking off his hat, as my wife put
her head out of the kitchen-door.

"Why,--no, sir," I said. "This is not a tavern."

"Not a tavern!" he exclaimed. "I don't understand that. You have a sign
out."

"That is true," I said; "but that is only for fun, so to speak. We are
here temporarily, and we put up that sign just to please ourselves."

"That is pretty poor fun for me," said the man. "I am very tired, and
more hungry than tired. Couldn't you let me have a little supper at any
rate?"

Euphemia glanced at me. I nodded.

"You are welcome to some supper," she said, "Come in! We eat in the
kitchen because it is more convenient, and because it is so much more
cheerful than the dining-room. There is a pump out there, and here is a
towel, if you would like to wash your hands."

As the man went out the back door I complimented my wife. She was really
an admirable hostess.

The individual in faded snuff-color was certainly hungry, and he seemed
to enjoy his supper. During the meal he gave us some account of himself.
He was an artist and had traveled, mostly on foot it would appear,
over a great part of the country. He had in his valise some very pretty
little colored sketches of scenes in Mexico and California, which he
showed us after supper. Why he carried these pictures--which were done
on stiff paper--about with him I do not know. He said he did not care
to sell them, as he might use them for studies for larger pictures some
day. His valise, which he opened wide on the table, seemed to be filled
with papers, drawings, and matters of that kind. I suppose he preferred
to wear his clothes, instead of carrying them about in his valise.