"Stop," said the boy; "don't you think that would suit us? it looks quiet."
"Could not look more quiet if it were a tombstone," replied Kenelm.
The boy put his hand upon the reins and stopped the cob. The cob was in that condition that the slightest touch sufficed to stop him, though he turned his head somewhat ruefully as if in doubt whether hay and corn would be within the regulations of a Temperance Hotel. Kenelm descended and entered the house. A tidy woman emerged from a sort of glass cupboard which constituted the bar, minus the comforting drinks associated with the /beau ideal/ of a bar, but which displayed instead two large decanters of cold water with tumblers /a discretion, and sundry plates of thin biscuits and sponge-cakes. This tidy woman politely inquired what was his "pleasure."
"Pleasure," answered Kenelm, with his usual gravity, "is not the word I should myself have chosen. But could you oblige my horse—I mean /that/ horse—with a stall and a feed of oats, and that young gentleman and myself with a private room and a dinner?"
"Dinner!" echoed the hostess,—"dinner!"
"A thousand pardons, ma'am. But if the word 'dinner' shock you I retract it, and would say instead something to eat and drink.'"
"Drink! This is strictly a Temperance Hotel, sir."
"Oh, if you don't eat and drink here," exclaimed Kenelm, fiercely, for he was famished, "I wish you good morning."
"Stay a bit, sir. We do eat and drink here. But we are very simple folks. We allow no fermented liquors."
"Not even a glass of beer?"