The Marked Money 

by A Retired Member of the Detective Police [William Russell]

The Erie Railroad, that great, puffing, driving, hospitality-destroying monster, winds through the village now.

But there was a time—
 
Certainly there was a time when those yelling, screeching engines did not rush at one end of the place at all unseemly hours of the day and night, wind themselves about it, rushing off at the other, after a horrifying coil, and roaring over the bridge like a great serpent, such as we read of in legend, seeming to say, “Well, I have spared you this time—only swallowed a few of your people. The next time I come I’ll take the whole of your tiny village.”
 
Yes, there was a time when the little place was still smaller than now. Not so very long ago, either. We can all remember it—all who can see the little lines of silver streaking through their hair. They can remember how, when they were young, this spot was a favorite on sleigh-rides, about a half-way house in the progress, where a fiddler (since become a violinist), was always to be had at a moment’s notice; where they had a way of knocking up the nicest little suppers while the hot punch (oh, whisper it low!) was being discussed, and where there was just room enough for a party to dance, and no more, no matter how large the party.

What! in the village?
 
Nonsense! I am speaking now of the little white house that stands about midway as you pass through. That is “The Village Tavern,” always has been the village tavern for more than half a century, until within ten years the last word was painted out, and that of “Railroad Hotel” substituted.

There was a time when, as I said, this “Village Tavern” was the great place for riding, driving, and fishing parties to stop at for dinner and supper. It was a spot, too, for travelers, when they did not scud over the land and… Read More