An Unwelcome Passenger

A cold winter’s night several years since found a stage load of us gathered about a warm fire of a tavern barroom in a New England village. Shortly after we arrived, a pedlar drove up and ordered that his horse should be stabled for the night. After we had eaten supper we repaired to the barroom and as soon as the ice was broken the conversation flowed freely. Several anecdotes had been related, and finally the pedler was asked to give us a story, as men of his profession were generally full of adventures and anecdotes. He was a short, thick set man, somewhere about forty years of age, and gave evidence of great physical strength. He gave his name as Lemuel Viney, and his home was in Dover, New Hampshire.

“Well, gentlemen,” he commenced, knocking the ashes from his pipe and putting it in his pocket, “suppose I tell you about the last thing of any consequence that happened to me? You see I am now right from the far West and on my way home for winter quarters. It was about two months ago, one pleasant evening, I pulled up at the door of a small village tavern in Hancock, Indiana.  I said it was pleasant—I meant it was warm, but it was cloudy and likely to be very dark. I went in and had my horse taken care of, and after I had eaten I sat down in the barroom. It began to rain about eight o’clock and for a while it poured down good, and it was awful dark out doors. 

“Now, I wanted to be in Jackson early the next morning, for I expected a load of goods there for me, which I intended to dispose of on my way home. The moon would rise about midnight, and I knew if it would not rain, I could get along very comfortable after that. So I asked the landlord if he could not see that my horse was fed about midnight, as I wished to be off before two. He expressed some surprise at this, asked me why I did not stop for… Read More