“We don’t want no rum around here,” declared the showman with positiveness.

The hostler winked his one eye at him, and, having had a rogue’s long experience in roguery, plainly showed that he believed a command of this sort to be merely for the purpose of publication and not an evidence of good faith.

“And there won’t be much rum left round here if we only let him alone,” muttered Hiram as he and the Cap’n walked back to the house.  “I only wisht them hired girls had as good an attraction for stayin’ as he’s got.”

“Look here, Hiram,” said the Cap’n, stopping him on the porch, “it’s all right to make loud talk to them Double-yer T. Double-yers, but there ain’t any sense in makin’ it to each other.  You and me can’t run this tavern no more’n hen-hawks can run a revival.  Them wimmen—­”

“You goin’ to let them wimmen cackle for the next two years, and pass it down to their grandchildren how they done us out of all the money we put in here—­two able-bodied business men like we be?  A watch ain’t no good only so long’s it’s runnin’, and a tavern ain’t, either.  We’ve got to run this till we can sell it, wimmen or no wimmen—­and you hadn’t ought to be a quitter with thutty-five hunderd in it.”

But there was very little enthusiasm or determination in the Cap’n’s face.  The sullenness deepened there when he saw a vehicle turn in at the tavern yard.  It was a red van on runners, and on its side was inscribed: 

    T. BRACKETT,
    TINWARE AND YANKEE NOTIONS.

He was that round-faced, jovial little man who was known far and wide among the housewives of the section as “Balm o’ Joy Brackett,” on account of a certain liniment that he compounded and dispensed as a side-line.  With the possible exception of one Marengo Todd, horse-jockey and also far-removed cousin of Mrs. Sproul, there was no one in her circle of cousins that the Cap’n hated any more cordially than Todd Ward Brackett.  Mr. Brackett, by cheerfully hailing the Cap’n as “Cousin Aaron” at every opportunity, had regularly added to the latter’s vehemence of dislike.

The little man nodded cheery greeting to the showman, cried his usual “Hullo, Cousin Aaron!” to the surly skipper, bobbed off his van, and proceeded to unharness.

“Well,” sighed Hiram, resignedly, “guest Number One for supper, lodgin’, and breakfast—­nine shillin’s and hossbait extry.  ’Ev’ry little helps,’ as old Bragg said when he swallowed the hoss-fly.”

“There ain’t any Todd Ward Brackett goin’ to stop in my tavern,” announced the Cap’n with decision.  Mr. Brackett overheard and whirled to stare at them with mild amazement.  “That’s what I said,” insisted Cap’n Sproul, returning the stare.  “Ferd Parrott ain’t runnin’ this tavern any longer.  We’re runnin’ it, and you nor none of your stripe can stop here.”  He reflected with sudden comfort that there was at least one advantage in owning a hotel.  It gave a man a chance at his foes.