Title:  Ten Nights in a Bar Room

Author:  T. S. Arthur

Release Date:  December, 2003 [Etext #4744] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on March 12, 2002]

Edition:  10

Language:  English

Character set encoding:  ASCII

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TEN NIGHTS IN A BAR ROOM

BY T. S. ARTHUR

NIGHT THE FIRST.

The “Sickle and sheaf.”

Ten years ago, business required me to pass a day in Cedarville.  It was late in the afternoon when the stage set me down at the “Sickle and Sheaf,” a new tavern, just opened by a new landlord, in a new house, built with the special end of providing “accommodations for man and beast.”  As I stepped from the dusty old vehicle in which I had been jolted along a rough road for some thirty miles, feeling tired and hungry, the good-natured face of Simon Slade, the landlord, beaming as it did with a hearty welcome, was really a pleasant sight to see, and the grasp of his hand was like that of a true friend.

I felt as I entered the new and neatly furnished sitting-room adjoining the bar, that I had indeed found a comfortable resting-place after my wearisome journey.

“All as nice as a new pin,” said I, approvingly, as I glanced around the room, up to the ceiling—­white as the driven snow—­and over the handsomely carpeted floor.  “Haven’t seen anything so inviting as this.  How long have you been open?”

“Only a few months,” answered the gratified landlord.  “But we are not yet in good going order.  It takes time, you know, to bring everything into the right shape.  Have you dined yet?”

“No.  Everything looked so dirty at the stage-house, where we stopped to get dinner, that I couldn’t venture upon the experiment of eating.  How long before your supper will be ready?”

“In an hour,” replied the landlord.

“That will do.  Let me have a nice piece of tender steak, and the loss of dinner will soon be forgotten.”

“You 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.