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.”

Besides young Hammond and this Harvey Green, there were in the bar-room, when I entered, four others besides the landlord.  Among these was a Judge Lyman—­so he was addressed—­a man between forty and fifty years of age, who had a few weeks before received the Democratic nomination for member of Congress.  He was very talkative and very affable, and soon formed a kind of centre of attraction to the bar-room circle.  Among other topics of conversation that came up was the new tavern, introduced by the landlord, in whose mind it was, very naturally, the uppermost thought.