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 colour—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."
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