Could Stand it a Day or Two,
About the time this occurred, there stood on one side of Capitol Square, in Springfield, a Hotel, now doubtless out of memory of most of the occupants of the out-lots and additions which speculators have hitched to the original village. In its day it was a "first-class hotel," but it waned before the "American" and is now among the "things that were." There were some who doubted the cleanliness of the cuisine, and "thereby hangs a tale."
Judge Brown arrived in town and put up at the aforesaid hotel, whereat, Uncle Abe, on meeting him, expressed his regret, begging him to become his guest. The Judge would fain not trouble his friend.
"But you know the reputation of the place—the kitchen?" said Uncle Abe.
"I've heard of it," said the Judge; "but as I want to keep my appetite, I always shun the kitchen, if not the cooks."
"But surely, can't you see by the table alone, Judge?"
"I know, Mr. Lincoln, but I'm going to stop only a day or two, and I guess I can stand for that time what the landlord's family stand all their lives."
Speaking of Hotels, reminds me of a little episode of one of Uncle Abe's professional visits to Cairo, in Egypt, a town fenced in with mud-banks and celebrated for its mud-holes and mean whisky. Thereabouts is a Hotel, and thereat Uncle Abe stopped because the water forbade further traveling. When his bill was presented to him next morning, he ventured to remark, "that his accommodation had not been of the most agreeable kind."
"We are very much crowded," apologetically replied the landlord.
"But I had hard work to get breakfast this morning."
"Yes," continued the apologist, "we are greatly in need of help."
"Well, well," said Uncle Abe, "you keep a first rate hotel in one respect."
"Ah!" said the landlord, brightening up, "in what respect is that?"
"Your bills," said Undo Abe, vanishing towards the "Central" cars.
The Ky-ro-ite landlord perhaps thought he ought to be well compensated for keeping a hotel in such a place. A man of his sort used to "keep tavern" in Pasy County, Indiana, several years ago. A pedestrian stopped with him over night, for which the charge was 2.50.
"Why, landlord," said he, "this is an outrageous bill."
"You mean it's a big'un?" said the insatiate Boniface.
"Yes, I do."
"Well, stranger, we keep tavern here."
"What has that to do with such a bill?"
"Look at that'ere sign, stranger—cost ten dollars; your'n the fust trav'ler that's bin along for three weeks, and we can't afford to keep tavern for nothin—we can't!"